


Zahvan T'Masu [A Cup of Water]

by dianekepler, Ywain Penbrydd (penbrydd)



Series: The Waterverse [1]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alien Peen, As legitimate crewmembers, Awkward Romance, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, M/M, Orion Slave Girls, Romulans, Vulcan Kisses, Vulcan Language, Weird Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-19
Updated: 2009-08-19
Packaged: 2018-09-27 00:16:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9938339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianekepler/pseuds/dianekepler, https://archiveofourown.org/users/penbrydd/pseuds/Ywain%20Penbrydd
Summary: T'Nis, daughter of an exiled Vulcan couple, seeks her revenge on the head of the council who exiled her fathers. But, it is Sarek's son who she decides must pay the price. She chooses to lure Spock into a similar scandal to the one that her fathers were entangled in, and to splash photographic evidence across the Federation, and she selects a 'reformed' Romulan starship pirate as her agent in manipulating Spock into position for her ends.Unfortunately, the Romulan, Starek, takes a bit too much of a liking to the target, and together he and Spock escape the reach of T'Nis's cameras, leaving her with less than she bought, but not nothing...





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Most non-English words in italics have translations, if you mouse over them. It doesn't work on mobile browsers, but I'm not sure how to fix that, and the translations are far too extensive to be stuck in the end notes. We've done the best we can for a work that leans so heavily on Vulcan and Romulan dialogue. (Also, I haven't looked at this fic in like seven years, so the tags will update as I post more chapters and figure out what I forgot was in here.)

T’Nis appears on the Renunciation’s transporter pad with the bottle of Romulan ale poised on one hip.  

Starek waits, leaning on the side of the transporter console. He is dressed in a fashion reminiscent of the classier side of a holodeck novel on pirates. He has a scarf tied about his head, but neither eyepatch nor parrot. He raises his left hand in the Vulcan salute.

" _Tonk’peh_ , T’Nis. Welcome to the Renunciation. I hope my crew do not disturb you greatly — they are mostly harmless."

The Orion woman at the console, dressed much like her Commander, pulls down the bottom of her right eye and sticks her tongue out at Starek. He pretends not to notice.

She returns the _ta’al_ and steps down from the transporter platform. Her look lingers briefly on the shapely Orion.

"I believe I can hold my own." She proffers the bottle. "A gift. In honor of our common interests, as it were."

" _Nemaiyo._ Let us take this to the lounge, where we might further discuss these common interests."

He accepts the bottle, with a gracious nod, before stepping back toward the door, his other hand extended in an invitation to follow, but flat-palmed, in that distinctly Vulcan way that discourages touch.

"Certainly. But first, would you be so kind as to give me the grand tour?" She slips a hand into the crook of his elbow, in a most un-Vulcan fashion. Starek’s eyes widen, but he recovers quickly.

"As you wish. You will understand, of course, that until we are in the lounge, I must ask that you refrain from touching most things. The Renunciation’s controls have been refitted in a non-standard configuration, in many places, to accommodate my desire for more brass and wood, and as such, they may not respond in the way you are expecting, which has disastrous potential."

He leads her through the door, toward the bridge. Her eyebrow lifts at the suggestion that she would touch anything as guest and a newcomer, but no doubt he has entertained all sorts of unsavory characters on his vessel. Shee remains impassive, allowing him to be her guide.

"The bridge is, I believe, the most beautiful part of the ship — other than my quarters, of course." He leads her through the doors, and takes a moment to address the Andorian who leaps up from the captain’s chair.

"Sit down, Merendith. You still have the conn. I am simply giving our guest a tour.

"You will notice that nearly all the dead space on the consoles and the walls has been fitted in engraved synthetic walnut. The engravings correspond to the standard labelling, everywhere it is requisite, and add embellishment where the walls looked plain. The wood alone encompasses _vaksur_.

"But, in this design, so many of the buttons are tangible, mechanical objects — there are levers and dials, where newer ships lack them. They are brass. where possible. Most of the cloth has been replaced with faux suede, in a stain resistant variety, in, as you see, that lovely crème caramel colour.

"I enjoy my ship, and I appreciate her to the best of my ability. She has saved my life more than once, and I owe her this. She should look like the fine vessel she is." He raises an eyebrow and cocks his head, silently asking if she’s any questions, before they move on.

 _" Is-lof heh vaksur._" T’Nis opines. "Yet the antique mechanisms — do they not interfere with the operation of the ship?"

" _Bolau vaksur is-lofik kwon-sum._ She moves as smoothly as any ship her age, and more so than many. The antiquity of the method is a function of the age and manufacture of the ship. It’s mostly been a matter of refitting the hardware, and adjusting the position of some consoles and attributes to accommodate a non-Klingon crew. Since we have converted from the extant mechanical system, rather than a Federation-style digital set-up, there are few places for it to affect standard function.

"Klingons, I have found, maintain more a physical interface with their ships, potentially because the digital consoles are … easily damaged with a fist. By adjusting the tension and size of the interface components, the controls have been made viable for a less strong and violent crew.

"I firmly believe the Orion girls down in engineering are going to kill me in my sleep for insisting on the addition of a digital console to the captain’s chair, but I’m spoiled by Ro–" he coughs, "the ingenuity of civilised species."

He trails a hand along the edge of a console. "A ship this size has few interesting sights, I’m afraid — the galley, a shuttle bay, engineering… We are only four decks, most of it crew quarters and engineering. Have you a preference as to what we visit, next?"

"You had mentioned a lounge." T’Nis gestures to the bottle Starek has set on the edge of the console he’d been caressing. Her eyes indicate she finds this entire affair quite diverting. "Also, Commander, I think it best if you bring the ale. Your crew are still on duty."

The corner of his mouth twitches in barely-concealed amusement. He lifts the bottle. "Merendith, don’t let anything happen to my ship."

He leads T’Nis off the bridge, to the turbolift, and from it, to the lounge on Deck 3. The room is not large, as far as lounges on starships go, but it is decorated in much the same fashion. It features a few small tables, spaced for discretion, and is empty of sentients. A cat sleeps on one of the tables.

"A place of sanity among the madness." He gestures broadly at the room, then acquires glasses from the replicator, setting them on a table with a view of the world the ship orbits.

 _" Pulau na’vathular k’nuhk — heh nar-tor pulaya s’au k’ka’es." _He opens the bottle, with reverence, and fills the glasses.

"I had meant to compliment you earlier. Your facility with the Vulcan tongue is most impressive." She accepts the tumbler of blue liquid with a gracious nod. The cat has raised its head and gazing at the pair of them, wondering, in the manner of its kind, how it might play the situation to its advantage.

"It is not so different from my own language. We are cousins, are we not? Mere points of philosophy and a thousand years of linguistic evolution between our people?" He lifts his glass, tilting it out, in what might be a toast. "In form, am I not just as Vulcan as you? Indeed, in function, I am neither Vulcan nor Romulan — stripped of meaning and unleashed upon the unsuspecting galaxy. My homeworld, this ship, my philosophy compiled from agreeable thoughts on the nature of sentience.

"But, I wax poetic. I believe your point was that I spoke Vulcan passably. You are most generous." He drinks, meeting her eyes, as he does to drive home the point that he has drunk first, without bothering to check for poison. "I shall attempt to restrain my overbearing philosophical impulses."

"Overbearing? No, I would say it is rather more . . . stimulating. But that is your speciality, is it not?" Here she pauses, drawing otu the ambiguity. "The spoken word? After all, we Vulcans are so very fond of our meaningful discourse." She sips, rolling the liquid around on her tongue. "Which is why I have sought you out — hat in hand, as it were."

Her eyes roam the lounge, pausing on the cat, who is approaching on quiet feet.

"May I be assured of your discretion?"

"Who would I tell? If nothing else, my place in the social strata would render my words inviable tripe to any who heard them — who trusts a starship pirate, these days? Even a mostly reformed one.

"No, you have little to fear from me, on that point. Were I to be even be heard, I only tell stories with the names left out. And if I tell those stories in Vulcan, who would even understand? Most sentences lack a subject sometimes even when that subject is not implicitly known."

He crouches, holding out a hand to the cat. " _Beta’uh, T’Marek._ "

The cat nuzzles his fingers and then steps closer to sniff at his glass. It does not look pleased at the scent of the ale.

"Very well then." T’Nis takes a deeper sip, again holding the liquor in her mouth for a moment before continuing. "My earlier statement about your ability to occasion a . . . rendezvous with the one called Spock. It was not an idle thought. In fact, I believe that you are the _ideal_ candidate.

"Had you considered it?"

He stares, amazed.

"You are proposing to me that I should attempt to engage in relations with Spock? I’m not going to object to this in the least, but I suspect my next question should be one about the cost of such a thing, for all involved. Where, to ask a Ferengi question, is your profit, in that?"

He lifts the cat in one arm, to drape across his shoulder and rises smoothly. Sitting on the edge of the table, he takes a long sip of the ale. "And perhaps more importantly, what in the four sectors would make you consider me the ‘ideal’ candidate? Last I had heard, Spock declines the finer points of art and pleasure, preferring a more severe simplicity of mind and environs than many genuine Vulcans of my acquaintance."

"Genuine Vulcans." Her eyes dance "Yes he does try terribly hard, doesn’t he? The little half-breed sycophant."

She smoothes out her robe and her expression before continuing. "Yes, I believe it is time to reveal my stake in all of this. Although I am Vulcan by descent, you have no doubt by now ascertained that I was not raised on the homeworld."

She raises both eyebrows, as if daring Starek to deny it.

"The reason for this is the scandal involving my fathers, Tunor and Selov, who chose one another over their intended bondmates. They engineered their seclusion and took a drug to bring them into their Time, thus ensuring that they would bond with one another."

She leans back against against the plush material of her chair. "What you may not know is that Sarek headed the council that decided their fate — provided the deciding vote, in fact. As a result, my fathers were exiled. Sarek eventually became an ambassador and also, apparently, a hypocrite when he married that Terran slut."

T’Nis took another lingering draught of the ale, savoring the pleasant burn. Then she leaned forward, face in her hands, elbows on the table. "That is why I require your assistance. I have studied your adventures well, your reputation precedes you. Your ancestry is, of course, the final key."

And she actually smiles, although the expression does not reach her eyes. "Sarek’s precious son with a Romulan."

"Politics! How _charming_!" He takes a large swallow of ale, and sets the glass heavily on the table.

"You wish me to seduce the ambassador’s son, to avenge your fathers. I wish to seduce the ambassador’s son, because he looks like he’d be stunning, all undone beneath me. I believe we can come to an arrangement in this matter."

He considers . "First we must discover the location and path of our target, and then we must establish a plan around those conditions. Is this agreeable to you?"

"It is perfectly agreeable." She raises her glass, indicating his with her eyes. "You still have a little left there. To mutual interests?"

"To mutual interests, regardless of their variant sources." He taps his glass against hers and drains it. "May the experience bring wisdom to all involved."


	2. Chapter 2

Although her city apartment is more practical, T’Nis also maintains a retreat in the desert northeast of Los Angeles. The exterior exhibits more than a few Wright influences, the main one being how it is cantilevered out over the desert floor. The interior is a mid-23rd century celebration of nature. Wood and stone are abundant, echoing the warm tones of the region. When T’Nis is in residence, she often plays host to those interested Vulcan society and culture.

Starek arrives, in the smoldering heat of the late-afternoon sun — that relentless, omnipresent blanket of burning that, in a way, reminds him of all the things he never liked about Vulcan. Oddly, his thick, black robes seem to insulate rather well against the heat, and he’d give the Vulcans that on the fashion front.

Smoothing his expression, in case he isn’t the only visitor, he rings the door chime.

The door is opened by a short blonde sporting a Vulcan haircut. However, nothing else about her is even remotely Vulcan, especially not her bikini top and the sarong she is wearing as a skirt.

"Oh hi," she cocks her head, leaning on the door and arching one foot in the manner of a ballet dancer. "C’mon in. T’Nis said there were some guests coming over tonight. I guess you’re one of them, huh?"

She has backed up to allow him access, but in a flash, steps forward to pick up the cat that has tried dart across the threshold.

"Oh no you _don’t_. Coyotes’ll get you."

She smiles at Starek, cuddling the creature. "Silly thing. By the way, my name’s Amber."

She puts out a hand. There is ink on it.

He raises his hand and his eyebrow, simultaneously, the hand forming the traditional _ta’al_ , on the incorrect side, as always.

"So it would appear. Greetings, Amber, I am Starek."

In truth, he’d be just as likely to shake the inky hand, nuzzle the cat, and go for an ass-grab, but he is making an effort to appear at least slightly Vulcan, for the duration. Thus, he nods deeply. It is almost a shallow bow.

"Oh, sorry, I forgot!"

She makes the _ta’al_ , also on the incorrect side, and smiles again by way of apology.

"Here, the place is kinda big. I’ll take you."

Amber leads him down the corridor, past several rooms, and up a wide stone staircase with no risers and no bannister. There are plenty of windows and skylights, so that the illumination at this time of day is natural. Starek can hear the sounds of a stringed instrument from one of the rooms at the end of the hall, and it is towards this that Amber moves, her bare feet making little slapping sounds on the wood here.

The music room contains a human woman of asian descent with a _ka’athyra_ against her shoulder. She is playing well. T’Nis is reclining on the same divan, absorbed in a PADD.

She looks up to see Starek and rises from her lounge.

" _Tonk’peh, d’Vel’nahr._ Your journey was not difficult, I trust?"

His lip twitches in amusement, as he makes the same slight bow to T’Nis.

" _Y’rani._ The journey was as any other." He looks around the room. "Your companions are fascinating. I had not been aware the lute was taught off-world."

"It is an experiment, I admit. But I believe that one should should always allow individuals the opportunities to express their talents" She gives Starek a conspiratoral look. "For example, Amber here is a prodigy. Her calligraphy is exceptional."

The blonde, who’d been cradling the cat while belly dancing to the tune of the lyre, grins at the compliment.

"Amber. If you would be so kind as to put Khart-lan down and bring up those trays of refreshments. Commander Starek must be parched by now. Amber, are you listening?"

"Okay."

"And have Cash come up as well. I want to see what you two have been working on all afternoon."

He manages to keep his eyes focused on T’Nis, cocking his head in acknowledgement as she compliments Amber’s calligraphy. He knows not to look. He will not lose focus, even if she has already made the truth of him known with a single word. If he does not acknowledge it, if he continues to play smoothly, they will likely forget, if they truly heard, at all.

T’Nis turned to the lute player. "Skye, that was lovely. I’m going to show Commander Starek where he’ll be staying tonight. We’ll be back shortly."

Starek follows T’Nis up the stairs. "What is she? Amber, I mean. She is … visually confusing."

She leads him out of the room, down the hall, and up a second flight of stairs. The room they end up in faces west. It is bright, now, full of sunlight. T’Nis polarizes the windows so that they won’t be blinded

"Amber", says T’Nis, turning away from the windows. "Is a test. So was the word I used to greet you. Be at your ease. I have made a habit of using _d’Vel’nahr_ to whoever stays here, regardless of race. My students have become used to hearing it as a compliment."

She cocks her head at Starek. "You are uncomfortable, " she observes. "Only I have seen it thus far. However, Spock is as watchful, if not more so. You will need to do better." Her tones are dulcet, but the feelings behind them are anything but. "I had intended this to be a pleasurable evening for all of us. Do not disappoint me, Commander."

"I have no doubt he will notice my discomfort, and I, as I have been pirate of some small reputation, should be able to pass it off as a … logical consequence of my actions. I am, by nature, a suspicious creature, as one must be, in my line of work."

"Now, The restroom is through there. I have stocked it with what you specified, as well as a few other items you might need. Anything in the closet is at your disposal as well."

He bows more broadly to her. "My thanks for your assistance in that regard. I have no intention of disappointing you. Far from it, in fact."

"No doubt your talents will assert themselves before long."

The corner of his mouth twitches up as he gracefully sidesteps the comment."A fascinating circumstance, you have here. I find myself significantly intrigued by your manner of living."

She seats herself on a corner of the bed, ankles crossed neatly. "What about my manner of living intrigues you, Commander?"

"You have chosen, as I have, to surround yourself with others who are not of your species. Unlike me, you have chosen to teach them in the arts of your … former home. I find it fascinating to witness the effects of Vulcan artistry without, it appears, the whole of Vulcan philosophy behind them." He takes a relaxed stance, symmetrical and balanced, but with his arms crossed behind his back.

"As to my talents, I’d be happy to give you a sneak preview, but I doubt we have the time for such things." This time, the look on his face is distinctly Romulan, but it vanishes as swiftly as it appears, back into an almost-Vulcan stoicism.

T’Nis allows her gaze to linger on Starek, to sweep him, in fact. His self-assurance is more than a little provoking, but it excites her nonetheless. She rises and walks towards him, holding his gaze, a smile playing on her lips. "A ‘sneak preview’. How intriguing. But contrary, I think, to our primary objective."

T’Nis is now closer than even when he guided her to the bridge of the Renunciation. For the space of a single breath, she allows her body to graze his.

"Give me what I want. Then we’ll see about the rest."

With that, and a knowing look, she is gone.

He shuts himself in the bathroom and turns on the shower, before he allows the laugh to escape. The running water will conceal the sound well enough. Two Vulcans, possibly in as many days — an irresistible challenge, even if his interest in the second is mostly for the sake of form. Leave no potential enjoyment unconquered, he thinks.

But, now it was time to compose himself appropriately. Soon, he would be close enough to breathe the same air as the infamous Spock. It would be both his pleasure and his duty to see that one undone — time to work a little harder on his androgynous good looks, and possibly to add a bit of colour to cover the faintly Romulan tone that remains in his skin.


	3. Chapter 3

As the twilight deepens, the house begins to light itself in subtle ways.

Starek returns to the music room, having appropriately arranged himself and smoothed his features. Abstraction and idle curiosity, he thinks, will serve him well, at this point.

With an almost imperceptible nod to T’Nis, he investigates the beverages Amber has brought, in his absence.

Alongside his host are Amber and a lanky young man of mixed heritage. He is reading from a digital display showing an older Golic script. He wavers as Starek comes in, but continues reading to the end of the verse.

"Though I go to you  
ceaselessly along dream paths,  
the sum of those trysts  
is less than a single glimpse  
granted in the waking . . . exterior?"*

"The waking world, Cash." It is Amber who corrects him. She smiles up at Starek. She also steals an olive from one of the dishes he is perusing and pops it into her mouth.

The would-be poet switches back to Standard and scratches his bushy hair. "Pre-Awakening text is so complicated," he complains.

T’Nis lifts one brow. "Would you rather read a more modern poem?" She fixes Starek with a look that clearly says "watch this."

"No way. Those don’t even have –" but he catches himself and stops.

T’Nis gets up. "Do me a favor you two. Please entertain the Commander while I go get changed and see about dinner. Your poems from today are good enough."

The next query is for her guest. "Can I get you anything before I disappear?"

"Thank you, no. I am certain I will survive until your return." Starek lets a faint hint of amusement play across his face, as he selects a glass of a relatively harmless-looking liquid. His eyes shift to Cash, with a hint of ironic approval. "Your Vulcan is not entirely appalling, boy. More than I might have expected."

"Thank you," he manages, with wide grateful eyes.

Amber grabs another couple of olives and pads over to where some pieces of parchment are laid out on a table. She selects two and hands Cash the smaller of the pair. "Want to read yours first?"

"Um, all right." He tugs at the hem of his T-shirt and clears his throat.

"Precipitation varies  
with the push of the winds  
yet my thoughts are calm  
despite the thunder."**

There are several more verses in this vein.

"I find that, while a logical world is an infinitely better place, the literary arts have suffered since the reformation. The physical arts are unharmed because beauty and practicality are easy companions, but when a language strives to encompass maximal meaning in minimal syllabary, it begins to lose many of its finer features. In that regard, I believe the Romulans may have one up on us — but indubitably only in that regard."

Starek turns one hand palm up, looking into it briefly, before turning up the other palm. "But, then, literary aesthetics are usually a sign of a far more emotional culture than we will admit to having, these last few centuries. It is a shame, in some ways, that the deterioration of the Vulcan language prevents not only the discussion of emotions we have no use for, but also the description of the finer points of the physical arts, as well. Such are the perils of excess, and even in the guise of logic and efficiency, it comes upon us."

He looks up at Cash. "Sorry, your readings got me onto a subject I rarely have sufficient inclination to discuss. I did not mean to — how do humans say it — ‘step into your limelight’."

Amber’s expression is open and bright. "I totally get what you’re saying, Commander Starek. But I dunno, I mean, the simplicity of modern Vulcan, isn’t it kind of a virtue sometimes? It’s like Latin. I mean, not — y’know — the scholarly or the church kind, but the kind that people just used in their everyday writing. You can say such amazing, profound things with it, and it’s so short that the concepts just, I dunno, they _stick_."

She has the grace to blush a little. "I mean, I know I’m just some Terran wannabe, but, here, can I read you my poem?"

Cash, who had been standing up until that point sits back down. But Amber doesn’t rise. She merely recites from memory, hugging one knee and rocking a little.

  
"Small  
And  
Very  
Difficult  
To destroy, atoms  
Fill the primeval void.

Pure  
And  
Rare  
Reactions  
Make the stuff of  
Stars and ancient nebulae.

 

Clouds  
Of  
Dust  
Draw nearer  
Heat, collide, to  
Form T’Khut, T’Khasi, Home."‡

There is more to it. She goes on to describe the rise of life and sentient beings, ending with the arrival of Surak and the subsequent era of peace. She has left the parchment on the floor in front of her and Starek can see how the calligraphy harmonizes with her thoughts.

He holds forth. "Simplicity is noble in the pursuit of the sciences and other formulaic things. In fact, it is viable in even an emotional context, if one’s desire is to put a point across solidly and unmistakeably. But, I find it is not so easy to pun in Vulcan as it is, in say, Klingon or an old Terran language called Japanese. Multi-layered meanings are less easily induced, in most places. I find Vulcan a rather sterile language, but that is not to say I do not enjoy it — I especially enjoy it when it is used in wholly unconscionable ways." Starek draws a lengthy iron needle from his sleeve and spears an olive with it. He had watched Amber eat one with her fingers, earlier, but that would hardly be appropriate behaviour.

"Your poem seems bent on simplifying an epic timespan — not that it cannot be done, but it seems, in this state, like a young tree, cut to make a staff, but never wholly smoothed. Twigs of ideas still jut from the core, distractingly." He chews the olive thoughtfully, then tucks the needle back into his sleeve. "It isn’t a bad poem, it’s just … distracted. Let me try one."

Starek folds his hands into his sleeves, closing his eyes, meditatively.

"Subatomic striations begin  
The swirling of the all begets a star  
And the light reveals a world therein  
Compression drawing galaxies apart

In the dust, some thinking thing arises  
Aware and territorial, at best  
War and language from it are its prizes  
With tools and talk it stands above the rest

And from this race a man of logic stands  
Offering his gift to all his own  
Most accept the wisdom from his hands  
But, others seek and find another home

With clarity and purpose, open hands  
We now accept the gifts of other lands"

Starek’s eyes open. "English sonnet. A Terran form. It lends itself to tales with stages."

"Oh _wow_ ," says Amber "I _like_ that one!"

Cash nods his agreement. "Crazy. Plus, I never expected a Vulcan to call his own language sterile. Do you have a lot of debates about it, when you’re at home, I mean?"

Starek draws the needle out again and spears another olive. They are oddly addictive, as far as food goes, and he attributes that to the salt.

"If by ‘home’, you mean Vulcan, I do not go there. The climate and I disagree. My home, now, is my starship, and it serves me well." Two more olives disappear into his mouth, and he swallows before speaking again. "I suspect that I am full of exactly the sort of revolutionary ideas that would make me entirely unpopular."

The students are curious about his revolutionary ideas, as well as his ship and Starek decides to indulge them — to a point. The conversation flows easily as the night deepens. Another door chime interrupts it, however."

"Dude! That’s gotta be Spock!" Cash looks a little worried.

"Come downstairs with us, Commander. We’ll show you where the dining room’s at. Then we gotta go change real quick"

Starek’s eyebrow lifts in smug amusement, but he follows the two to the dining room, smoothing the look off his face, before reaching the destination.


	4. Chapter 4

Across from the door through which Starek enters are two figures examining an oversized piece of abstract art. Both are dressed formally in robes of appropriately sober hues. T’Nis has put her hair up, with a minimum of ornamentation. She is explaining something to her new guest, who stands perfectly straight, his arms clasped behind his back.

To the left, an oblong table set for three is arranged before a set of single-paned French doors. They are open, allowing the the trickle of water from a feature in the courtyard to be seen and heard.

At the sound of Starek’s voice, both T’Nis and Spock and politely approach. The three of them meet near a grouping of deep chairs that separates the long wall with its fireplace and artwork from the doorway through which the Romulan entered.

Their host adroitly follows the opening protocols. "Commander Spock of the U.S.S. Enterprise, may I present Commander Starek of the Renunciation."

" _T’nar pak sorat y’rani._ " Starek raises both his hand, in greeting, and his eyebrow, in fascination, but he waits for the greeting to be answered, before he speaks again.

"I confess, I have been intrigued by reports of your continued existence. _Pzhu-tor du vesh’nam-tor watosh. Au riyeht maut. Sem-rik_. " He studies Spock as dispassionately as he can. "Some people have no appreciation of the finer points of art and artistry. It is illogical and foolish of them to discount you merely because you do not fit the mold, in this day and age."

He pauses, for a long moment. "Forgive me my manners. You are, of course, a man, and not a work of art. And a scientist, I am told, whereas I am an artisan. It is a different perspective."

T’Nis hadn’t thought she was going to be this amused this quickly. _Sem-rik_ , indeed. Spock is watching Starek closely which means that he doesn’t catch his host’s fleeting smile at the Romulan’s opening salvo.

There is a pause, indicating that the Federation officer is nonplussed. The pause could, of course, be deliberate. On Vulcan, strategic gaps in conversation are often used to convey surprise at another’s actions. They also work to express disapproval. But T’Nis has interacted with Spock before and believes that in this instance, her first analysis was correct. Starek has hit his mark.

" _K’lalatar prkori k’lalatar prnak’liri._ ," Spock asserts, perhaps as a reminder.

"Gentlemen," T’Nis’s tone is easy. "Shall we be seated?"

It takes a fair bit of Starek’s control not to grin wickedly, but he manages well. He nods to T’Nis and waits for Spock to sit, so he can take the seat directly across the table. To sit next to Spock would be overplaying his hand.

"Your poets are surprisingly good, considering they were clearly not raised with the language," He remarks easily, to T’Nis, before turning his eye to Spock. "Butchery, of course, from a native perspective of excellence, but contextually considered, truly excellent work."

The sounds of the diners being seated seems to have been a prearranged signal. Cash arrives from behind Starek’s right shoulder to set down a platter, moving around the table to deposit another on the far end, near Spock. It is clear that he has heard the remark, but he says nothing.

"Butchery, Starek?" Spock’s reply is even. "No more than you or I attempting to reinterpret the works of Aristophanes, on T’Khasi. T’Nis and the students are to be admired for their efforts."

Amber glides in with a serving tray full of smaller dishes. Sartorially, she is the image of propriety, except for a pair of fuzzy pink socks. But she has smiles for everyone. Skye also returns with her _ka’athyra_. She gives a modest bow to the diners and sinks down onto a footstool over by the more plush furniture grouping, setting her lissome fingers to the strings.

T’Nis nods at Spock. "Your return visit encourages us more than your praise. There, I believe everything is arranged. _Aru-yokul’voh muhl_. "

Skye begins to play.

Starek addresses Spock once again."You lack the native prejudices I have become familiar with. Of course, I might have guessed as much — you are here, after all." he considers the food for a moment.

"But, as I said, ‘contextually excellent’. After all, I, myself, have done no justice to Terran tradition, with my own composition. All things must be considered, not only objectively, as they are, but within the context in which they come to light."

He looks to T’Nis, faint confusion about his features. "Have I misspoken? You know I mean no insult to you or your students."

" _Nam-tor ri thrap wilat nem-tor rim_. " T’Nis replies, giving Spock a look, that clearly says "ah, youth."

"The chef should be congratulated on this _balk’ra_ ," he says meditatively. "The cooler temperature is agreeable."

"I thank you. As with many dishes, I find it is best served cold." T’Nis risks a glance at Starek while her other guest is absorbed in what is on his plate.

Starek looks up, mouth full, and blinks. He has been eating rather quickly, and has just now realised that may not be the most polite thing. He swallows, and the corner of his mouth twitches in amusement as he looks to T’Nis.

"I have had three months of nothing but Andorian food, since D’nila broke the main replicator bank. Merendith will do anything to avoid taking my place on the bridge, much to my palate’s dismay." He glances at Spock. "It is refreshing to eat a sensible meal with company who are not throwing honey-cakes at each other, across the table. Also, I am firmly with _Zhel-lan_ Spock, on the subject of the _balk’ra_. Do you think, once D’nila has the replicators working again, I could have this particular recipe? I would not trust Merendith with it, for the world, but I do not think the replicator will do it too much injustice."

"And certainly you may obtain the recipe" T’Nis tells him pleasantly. "And nourish yourself. It would be agreeable to see you full of energy at the end of the meal. Speaking of which, if you will excuse me, I will go see about dessert."

Khart-lan, lured by the smell of food, slinks silently in. He hops up onto the back of the sofa and watches them intently.

Spock addresses Starek from across the table. His tone conveys a certain camaraderie. "I also must admit an appreciation for food that has not been replicated. It is one of the reasons that I find these invitations so agreeable. May I ask how you have come to be acquainted with T’Nis?"

"We met at a conference," Starek is vague, unwilling to disclose the nature of their initial meeting. "She expressed an interest in my ship, and I in her rather prominently displayed Romulan ale. It was, if I may say, quite a meeting of the minds. And you? From whence does she come to know someone such as yourself?"

"Some months ago, a scheduled leave from the Enterprise coincided with an opportunity to lecture on temporal physics at Starfleet Academy. T’Nis attended and afterwards asked that I aid her with certain difficulties she was having with instructing her human students. Spending the remainder of my leave here was a productive experience."

When he has finished a bite of food, Spock indicates Skye with his gaze. "This musician has shown further progress than I had anticipated."

T’Nis returns to the table in time for Spock’s next question. "Aside from poetry, what other pastimes do you enjoy?"

"Aside from poetry? Any unconscionable uses of any language are high on my list. I’m a great fan of right and wrong." Starek glances across at T’Nis to let that one sink in. "Other than that, I enjoy indulging myself in all the beauty the universe has to offer me. Someone must be able to speak of the truth of beauty, and the objective points of it, panculturally. There are some things that all races find appealing, and I wish to find those things and combine them."

Starek pauses to eat some more befor continuing "And you? Other than temporal physics and music, I mean?"

"I find three-dimensional chess most stimulating," he leans forward, slightly. "But please, tell me more about this project of yours, to discover what appeals to all races."

"Most humanoids and _vuhlkantra_ , at a similar point in development to where we are, have certain similarities in taste — whites and greens are prominent in starship designs, because they are cool, but bright, and easy on the eyes, in most cases. Klingons are the exception, preferring greys and reds. But, in terms of the attractiveness of females, I find that Klingons and Terrans are very much in agreement, and it is we who disagree, because we tend to find those body types excessive, since we are such a slim race." Starek nearly smiles, lip twitching. It fades quickly. "However, in all instances, spherical shapes tended to increase the appeal of a work — not spherical-type deformations of established form, but abstract spherical works. It is the most mathematically complex shape that can be expressed in three dimensions, and the simplest — the first shape any child draws. The sphere of suns and worlds, it appeals to all things."

Starek has stopped paying attention to himself and his words in the middle of this speech. His eyes have gone starry and distant as he traces demonstrative patterns with his hands.

"In the words of a twentieth-century musician of Earth, ‘Time is round and space is curved.’ We proved that, before his time, the Terrans, after his time, but the curve is still dominant in all beautiful things."

Finally, he catches himself. His face flattens out, his hands slow and settle. "I am still seeking another example of this phoenomenon. If it exists once, surely, it exists again. We are not all so different, I think."

Spock finds himself intrigued by the cadence of Starek’s words and also by the fine ideas themselves. Clearly he has put some thought into this. The beauty of the patterns Starek had been tracing does not go unnoticed either, although he does not see fit to remark upon it.

Amber approaches the table. "Dessert is almost ready."

T’Nis has eaten her fill and notes that her guests seem to have done the same. "I think we’ll tidy up and take it over by the coffee table, please."

As is traditional, everyone rises to assist with collecting dishes, although the students are there to take everything back to the kitchen. Once the diners have settled among the deeper chairs near the fireplace, the men occupying opposite ends of the same loveseat, Amber returns with the next course.

"Have you ever had soufflé before, Commander Starek?"

"I do not believe I have — or if I have, I did not know its name when I ate it." Starek crosses his ankles, leaning into his corner of the loveseat, so that his legs extend slightly into Spock’s personal space. He notes that the position is not nearly as attractive in these robes as it is in his usual style of dress.

Spock catches the scent rising from the ramekin set up in front of him, sharing a plate with its own little jug of sauce.

He looks up at T’Nis. "These dishes contain chocolate."

"And lavender," Amber adds helpfully. "My mom always put it in."

"In that case, I should not partake." he turns to hand his plate back, but the young woman stiffens.

"You don’t like chocolate, Commander?"

"It is not that. And I should not wish to offend you, T’Nis, however-"

Amber twists her hands in the hem of her blouse, looking greatly affected "I don’t -"

Their host leans forward. "It is my fault, Amber, I should have realized. Commander, I apologize. She was very excited about preparing the dish, and it was my oversight not to inquire about the flavoring."

"Please, accept my apologies instead, _Opilsu_." He addresses this last honorific towards Amber. "I shall partake. I am, after all, on leave at the present time."

The expression on Amber’s face goes from a rain-soaked morning in February, to an afternoon in May. "You’ll really eat it?"

T’Nis dismisses her with a wave. "We will Amber, thank you."

The young woman beams and scampers back to the kitchen.

"Thank you, Spock." T’Nis reaches for the chocolate sauce and drizzles some onto her pastry. "That was a kindness. She is so very concerned with making a good impression on you."

Spock nods in acknowledgement and reaches for his spoon.

Starek coughs to cover the fact that he’s just choked on his own spit. Eminently logical Spock has just agreed to intentionally consume an intoxicant. He takes a bite, and the world stops and stutters, for a moment. Starek visibly loses touch with reality for a moment, nearly dropping his spoon. "This… is … _maut-klon’es. Maut-klon’es yokul-yehat_. "

Spock is also quite earnest in his reply. " _Nam-tor ish-veh ritsuri. Sem-rik._ "

T’Nis notes with satisfaction that when they are all finished eating, no trace of the dessert remains.

Once again, they stack the dishes and T’Nis takes hold of the collection. "I shall convey your comments to the chef. I suspect she will be relieved."

She strides off towards the kitchen, where animated voices can be heard.

" _Ritsuri eh sem-rik – kethelvau tu be’ka-zhit, Zhel-lan._ " Relaxing back against the couch, Starek watches Spock, from the corner of his eye.

"I do not — how so?" he cocks his head.

Khart-lan has been drawing steadily closer to Starek for some time now and has at last reached optimal head-rubbing distance. He starts with just the head and then goes along to stroke his entire body up against one of Starek’s booted shins.

Starek leans forward, scooping the cat into his lap, to pet it. "You are by no means the stereotypical Vulcan — but none of us are, tonight. Surely that qualifies as ‘exotic’. And in the present company, where even your ancestry could go uncommented, your angular features are enough to draw the eye." Starek lifts a hand to sketch in the air with a finger, again. "The angle of the typical Vulcan jawline is significantly flatter than yours. It makes your face seem slimmer, and oddly more … appropriate to the lines of the typical Vulcan body. It is a piece of natural design I had not realised I found disturbing, until I saw the alternative. _Limuk t’du vaksurik maut_."

His hand returns to the cat, scratching it under the chin. "But, my fascination with you is more than a matter of artistry, although that certainly helps the case. You are more human than even I, in some of your interactions. You perceive impact before you speak — perhaps a result of being the Ambassador’s son. Politics is in the blood, I’m told. But, even then, your world is one in which music is related to math. Mine is one in which math is related to music. It is these small differences in trajectory that leave me unable to stop attending you — calculating the different lines of thought, the alternate sites of impact for a word."

"You intrigue me, as few things do." Starek’s face has remained placid through the entire explanation, simple, open-eyed, and nearly mechanical, as he becomes, sometimes, when he needs to be certain of the precision of his words. With a nod, his eyelids slide down a millimetre or two, and again, his eyes shift to the side to watch Spock, instead of the cat.

"Music and mathematics are . . . equivalent." Spock mutters, staring at the piece of art over the fireplace. He clenches his eyes shut and then opens them again, shaking his head just slightly.

Starek notices Spock’s reaction, and suspects he’s getting somewhere. "Yes, but you come at them from one side, and I from the other. However, this is not what disturbs you. Unlike you, I speak what I perceive to be truth with somewhat less consideration for the impact. Have I offended you in some way? Be honest with me, that I may avoid doing so, again."

Khart-lan has begun kneading the robes in Starek’s lap, his claws working. He begins to purr. But Starek is not looking at the cat, at all. He simply continues to pet it, letting his fingertips judge the reactions, instead of his eyes. He needs his eyes to judge Spock’s reactions, regardless of how much he’d prefer to judge those with his hands.

"There is no offense, I . . ." Spock puts a hand to his face, the index and middle fingers near the center of his forehead, thumb along the line of his jaw. "Please excuse me. It appears that I require some air."

He rises slowly, heads for the French doors and passes through them into the courtyard. His progress is not one hundred percent linear.


	5. Chapter 5

T’Nis emerges from the now-shadowed doorway leading to the kitchen. She leans over the back of the sofa, until she is close enough to whisper to Starek. " _Tizh-tor sha-shai, Starek-kam ha?_ "

Starek tilts his head back onto the top of the couch, smiling wickedly, because he knows Spock is still outside, and cannot see it, at that angle. " _T’nash-veh sanosh maut_."

He gives T’Nis his most innocent expression. " _Vesht zarahk-tor ish-veh – kwes nash-veh. Nah-tor lau nuh’ne’vi-yumuk. Ri’fai-tor nosahp-wak ish-veh hafau lamok._ "

There is a long pause as Starek unhooks the cat’s claws from a rather uncomfortable spot in his robes. "Vita nam-tor nash-veh svi’lafosh – nuh’maut tizh-tor ish-veh.I am uncertain of the state of things, at this time, _ ko-kai_."

"Skye, you have done well," T’Nis nods at the young woman who stops playing, rolling her fingers in the air and flexing them. "Please go bring us that last tray from the kitchen and then you may join the others."

" _Avon-telik na’sanosh ish-veh._ " she murmers to Starek, casting a glance after her retreating pupil in her shift-dress. "His stoicism is merely a front. I perceived on his previous visit that he will sample the novelties that I have to offer, given the correct inducement."

T’Nis stands, her fingers on the back of the sofa, and arches her back in a feline manner before leaning against it with one hip. The intoxicant is affecting her too, although unlike Spock she is used to it.

"Or were you getting cold feet?" Her tone is playful, mocking.

The Vulcan accepts the tray from Skye, who, with a small nod towards Starek, collects her instrument and leaves.

"This water is artisanal. He will be most appreciative of your thoughtfulness in taking it out to him. If he asks, tell him that I have retired."

The oblong tray with its handles at either end holds a decanter filled with a clear liquid and two glasses.T’Nis sets the tray down on the coffee table and follows Skye’s earlier trajectory, lowering the lights as she reaches the door.

" _Kunli-psthan._ "

Starek stands and takes the tray. "Cold feet," he mutters, heading toward the French doors, "That’ll be the day."

He approaches Spock, faint amusement playing in his eyes, as he closes the distance, and as he comes up behind his _shi-kar-tor_ , he opens with a pre-Awakening offer of peace.

" _Masu t’nash-veh terish k’t’du_ _._ "

The Vulcan turns at Starek’s approach. He looks relieved upon seeing that the statement is, in fact, literal.

_" Th’i-oxiara. Na’nash-gol’nev, nam-tor dvinsu t’du." _

"You thought I was going to spit," Starek noticed, still amused, "and I would have, if it were my land. But, I have heard such things are frowned upon, on Earth."

He makes a sharp gesture with his chin. "Thanks are superfluous. Just take a glass before I start talking, or we both know I’m going to sprain my wrist, when I forget I’m holding this tray. The beauty of the universe is overpoweringly distracting, and I have it in my eyes, at all times. Perhaps, moreso tonight, than at other times. _La’vaksur maut – heh hau tu na’ish-veh._ "

Spock fills both glasses. He relieves Sarek of the tray and sets it down on a nearby bench, turning to present a glass back to the giver. " _Difan’es heh muhi’es._ ," he toasts, and drinks deeply.

There is a moment of silence before he continues.

"Many times this evening, you have commented on my appearance." He looks down, to the right, and then back up into Starek’s eyes. "It is . . . curious."

"Is it, truly? Then more the fools, those around you. Or, perhaps, more the fool, I." Starek sips at the water, savouring it, as he holds the glass reverently, in both hands. It is an oddly Vulcan habit, and one most often seen in the generation now breathing their last breaths.

"For all that spheres are universally appealing, I find a stronger draw to certain angles, myself." One hand takes flight, painting a body in the air, with caresses, rather than lines, fingertips lingering where his favourite parts would be, as he speaks. "I spoke earlier of your jaw, but the angle of your eyes is also pleasing — both the curve and the geometry of your face, where they sit. My Merendith likes to paint her face with butterfly wings, but you have a similar effect, with only light and shadow. I have watched the way your lips move, all evening, but only because it would be far less invasive and impolite than watching your hands. Your hands do not describe matter and emptiness as mine do, but the precision in your fingers makes grand gestures unnecessary. You are a thing of beauty, as well as a man of great intellect, and I cannot separate the two, completely."

Starek looks past his hand, catching Spock’s eyes again. "I wish only that I had met you in the rain, but you would not know me for a Vulcan, if I had. I fear I might have wept at your grace, in such circumstances."

Spock is so focused on the commander’s declarations that he does not realize how his own lips have parted. Who is this mercurial being? At first acquaintance, he seemed nothing more than a callow hanger-on. Yet now, the eloquence of the Starek’s words and the grace of his gestures dictate otherwise.

"I have never . . . " he looks to Starek, as if for guidance. "I do not understand."

Starek’s lips twitch. "Of course you don’t. Your father is a politician, and you surround yourself with scientists. I don’t understand the finer points of time-dependent fluid dynamics, and you’re lacking in some of the more detailed points of aesthetics."

He offers his left hand — always his left. "Read me. See as I do. I don’t know how much you can gather, from just a palm-touch, but it is all I am willing to offer. After all, I hardly know you, as much as I might think I want to."

The offer is made flippantly, but Starek’s eyes make clear that he understands the weight of such an offer. He has offered his _hand_ to a Vulcan, to share some fragment of his perceptions. He knows that with just a hand, he can control what gets through — it will be the immediate thoughts and sensations, if that much, with a half-breed, and not the drowning rush of memory that would betray him. He clears his mind of everything but the lines and shadows, the rush of excitement, the mathematical comparisons with the golden ratio…

"I . . . do enjoy aesthetics. This place is aesthetically pleasing. You as well, Commander, with your sense of how we differ." Spock brings his other hand up to his glass to mirror Starek’s posture. "I confess a desire to know more, yet this is a novelty. Such exchanges -" he begins and then stops.

"Do artists commune in this way?"

"At times, when words are not enough. It is not a common necessity, as we see very differently than you do, to begin with. A hint, here and there, and the entire image is easily revealed." Starek sips his water, again, taking comfort in the ritual action. "It is not something I offer lightly to someone who lacks my eyes. It is also something in which I have only previously engaged with Betazoids. No Vulcan has ever shared my vision. Most, I think, would be quite disgusted at the thought."

His eyebrow lifts slightly. "And I thank you for noticing."

"Noticing . . ." Spock thinks for a moment. Starek can see the wheels turning. It’s easy to spot the instant at which understanding dawns. It’s marked by a lowering of the eyes and a sudden stammering explanation.

"I hadn’t meant to say I found you — I mean, it was because -"

The lighting is low in the courtyard, coming mainly from inside a shallow, rectangular water feature that ripples gently. The bottom sides of the pool are sand-colored. They scatter the light evenly; therefore, Starek is able to see the exact moment Spock begins to blush.

He straightens, looking at Starek head-on. "I am not disgusted. Not at all."

"Nor am I," Starek returns, looking Spock up and down, to call attention back to his heritage. It is a dirty move, coming from a Romulan, but Starek holds steady, keeping his mind filled with only the things he wants Spock to see.

He bends, gracefully, setting his glass down, pausing for a moment to watch the light diffract through the facets, painting his hand with small rainbows. Standing, he holds his left hand out to Spock.

Spock takes a breath and reaches forward to rest his fingertips lightly on Starek’s palm.

It’s a good thing that Starek got a grip on controlling his mind, while working with those Betazoids, last year, because otherwise this would have crashed and burned the instant Spock touched him. He curls his fingers around Spock’s, and focuses on the Vulcan’s face, letting the art take over. He can see the math: white lines, numbers describing the angles and the planes, every curve and jut. The colour matching begins along the right edge of his vision — he knows almost every shade of oil paint the replicator can make — or at least enough of the theory to recognize them when he sees them — and he is matching colour to number, now. Spock becomes less a man, in his eyes, and more a study in the whole of his parts, in the parts of his whole. The angle of refraction off his eye in lumens and vector, the pastel-soft edge that only exists on the outer rim of the left iris, closest to the nose. Every detail, precise.

And then, he steps back, still holding Spock’s hand, and the math, the sketched forms, the colour pallet — they all fall away, leaving only the striking image of a young Vulcan, caught off-balance, bathed in the glow from the nearby pool. The sky has become a rich, navy blue, greenish, along the horizon line, and Starek thinks it offsets the natural colour of the scene quite well.

He cannot quite control the flicker of thought — there and gone — of this beautiful figure bending through the steps of a pre-Awakening rain-dance. He chases the thought with more calculations of angle and dexterity from his memories of dinner, and a faint heat, a low-intensity desire, creeps in beneath the images.

Spock, conversely, is unprepared for the rush of color, as well as for the sheer quantity of hues that can be known and named and chosen. Along with the stunning visuals there are parallels and harmonics, entire categories of understanding linked with single ideas. With Starek’s perusal of his cheekbones, he apprehends not only the word "chartreuse", but its history, its strength, its chemical relation to absinthe, and the memories of how they burn a bit differently, going down.

The knock to the Vulcan’s psyche is like that first moment, as a child, when he discovered how differential equations were not just for solving, but for describing the physical world, and at the same instant how those slanted, marching rows of tensors could hold the cosmos inside of them.

There are other new concepts, too, such as the Orion word for the level of Starek’s desire. Spock is unsettled to see that the same word applies to the as-yet unacknowledged feeling in the pit of his own belly, which grows once it has gained an appellation.

Sober, he might have been able to absorb it all, but in his current condition, the body that Starek just pictured rain-soaked and glistening fails him. The glass of water drops from his hand. Starek attempts to catch it, but succeeds only in knocking it — plunk — into the pool and breaking the contact they shared.

Spock says nothing. He merely kneels and examines the depth of the water, grateful for the excuse to control his breathing and rest his eyes somewhere beside Starek’s face.

Although close to the edge, the tumbler is nonetheless beyond reach, at least of arms as fully clothed as his. Starek, however, kneels beside him, pushes back one of his sleeves, and easily retrieves the glass.

He deftly avoids the actual subject at hand, leaving time for the impressions to soak in. Having set the dropped glass aside, he leans backward, arching over his heels, and takes hold of his own glass. He takes it in both hands, holding it out to Spock, and stares, intently, at the ground, between his arms.

"My apologies. Please, have mine instead."

Spock is now quite aware of the growing need in his vitals. Of course, he must suppress it, as well as the feelings that are growing in tandem, but having seen his face through Starek’s eyes and his body in Starek’s mind, Spock’s efforts at control are partially successful at best.

And to further complicate matters, here is Starek in the ancient and beautiful posture of _Van-Kal T’Masu_.

The connotations of his offer are unmistakable. However, Spock retains enough of his faculties to understand the impropriety of such an action, however willing Starek might be. Thus, he rises, his hands folded together beneath his sleeves in silent negation.

It is the sound of Spock rising — the soft rustle of cloth unfolding — that catches Starek’s attention, and for a lengthy moment, he cannot quite place what has happened. Then, he looks up, and realises what posture he’s taken. With a slightly alarmed gasp, he unfolds, stepping back and blushing brightly as he rises.

"That’s not what I meant! Not like that!" He is actually unsettled. "My chief engineer is an Orion. It’s … it’s an Orion gesture of apology, and one I see often enough to forget."

He continues to hold out the water, in one hand, by the top of the glass.

"Forgive me."

But although Starek is now standing, the memory of the posture, and Spock’s mistaken idea of its connotations, seems to have burned itself into his frontal lobe. As it stands the Vulcan can barely bring himself to look at the glass. The hand that Starek has on the glass is still wet. Were Spock to once more brush that hand . . . .

Again, he struggles to regain some measure of control, yet again it eludes him. All he can think of now the rest of Starek’s arm must also still be wet — up to the bicep in fact.

"It is I who should ask your indulgence, for my oversight, not your for your perfectly logical misinterpretation." Starek’s wits begin to re-gather, and he can feel a faint chill creeping up his arm, as the water evaporates from it.

"But, here we stand, knowing and known, and I wonder if either of those things are necessary at all."

Starek wonders a great many things, in fact, like whether Spock is ticklish, or whether Romulan and Vulcan anatomy has diverged even farther than in skin tones and occasional brow-ridges, or whether he has made anything like the right decision, here. Certainly, he wants to watch Spock come undone, preferably beneath him, but he does not know which side he will play in the second act, when the curtain rises on what will clearly be his betrayal. He has a choice, there. He can stand with T’Nis, or he can gape in horror, and pretend he knew nothing, and that her revenge is her own doing. In the moment, it does not matter. The first act has not yet come to a close.

Spock does his best to consider rationally. There is such novelty here and it would not do to shrink from it merely because it is unaccustomed. Yet he backtracks once again. What madness to even consider this. Nonetheless the images he shared with Starek, far from dimming with time, seem to be growing brighter. He is unable to stop adding to them either. His mind is a kaleidoscope of his own making.

He realizes that some answer is expected. "We are guests here," he says at last.

"This is a truth. I am not, however, certain of your implications." Starek’s eyebrow lifts, the only motion to break his stillness, other than that of his lips.

" _You_ are not certain?"

He struggles with a number of things. Confusion is first, the sense of being on shifting ground. This is followed closely by frustration at his inability to think rationally or assert himself in this situation. Desire is there as well.

"You that speaks of knowing and known and then you-"

"I wish to be certain I am not misunderstanding you. We do seem to have a bit of trouble, in that regard, do we not? You insinuate that there is something we might either attend to or shy from, because we are guests in this place, but there are any number of things to which you might refer, several of which are currently relevant." _And at least one of which is relevant to my interests_. Starek hopes the last part is only in his head. "Even you know that the knowing of hands is limited, at best, regardless of the insight it brings. And I do hope it has brought you that."

He grits his teeth. "I insinuate nothing. I merely point out that because we are guests in this place it would do to maintain," and he lowers his voice, "some modicum of decency."

"And that is an accusation. I know one of those when I hear it." Starek flicks his wrist, emptying the glass, through his fingers, into the pool. His neck stiffens, and his chin rises, ever so slightly. He sets his glass on the tray, silently, and moves to reclaim the other, as well. His lips are tight as he sets the second glass down, but he does not move to take it inside.

"Perhaps I am wrong. That does happen, from time to time." He does not look at Spock. "Do you wish to take this conversation out of such a public venue?"

Spock’s hands are now tight at his sides. "Do not seek to provoke me, Starek. Clearly you seek something beyond conversation. To _insinuate_ that you now do not understand borders on insufferable."

"I insinuate nothing. I am merely attempting to keep up what appearances remain." Starek picks up the tray. "However, my initial assumptions were genuine, and for that I can only offer flimsy excuses. I do not seek to provoke you. That would be counterproductive.

"Yet now that we have set aside the veils of politesse, what about you? Would you _accept_ something more than conversation?" This time he does look, indolent interest lighting his eyes, as he pins Spock with them.

"What I was attempting to say . . . " And then Spock trails off, understanding at last how poor, how almost ridiculous his earlier objection was. Perhaps making him aware of this had been Starek’s intent.

Certainly they would not disturb anyone. Indeed, being here, far from colleagues and family and home could be his best opportunity to experiment. Still, he racks his brain, looking for some, any excuse.

"I am unsure," he says, completely honest at last.

"I can accept that answer." Starek nods. "But are you willing to see how far you would go? I can be both pleasant and accommodating, and regardless of your final decision, it is not my nature to hold resentment, over such trivialities."

At last, an appropriate lesson comes to Spock’s mind. " _Eik-veshtaya to’ovau kau – lu veshtaya ri glazhau goh na’kastorilaya t’kashan._ "

But he says it softly, as if not in complete agreement anymore.

" _Ri vath kau eh ri vath rok nam-tor na’etek hi etek kau-tor ,_" Starek says, before he can think too much about it. He spreads his hands, the tray wobbling a bit, in one, as he has forgotten he is holding it. " _Ma etek natyan teretuhr lau etek shetau weh-lo’uk do tum t’on._ "

The very corner of his mouth curls up, slightly. "Even post-Awakening, all things are justifiable, with minimal effort. Do not quote Surak to me. Tell me the truth as you see it."

"The truth is only," and Spock takes a deep breath, "that I fear to acknowledge the truth."

" _Zahal’uh. Im’roi’uh k’nash-veh._ " Starek holds his hand out, welcomingly, trailing it behind him as he heads back toward the house. He leaves the tray on a table and pauses at the base of the stairs, to be certain Spock has followed.

"We will continue this discussion in my room, I think. It is… moderately private, and at a glance, rather comfortable. Do you object to this?"

"I . . . cannot."

Spock follows him up the stairs, one hand trailing along the stone-faced wall for balance, and perhaps for security as well.


	6. Chapter 6

Starek stops, outside the door, face clouding briefly, as he rests a hand upon it. Somewhere down the line, he will regret this, no matter what he does, at this point. It is only a matter of which of them he will disappoint, and either is a dangerous choice. This is not the way it should have gone, and he did not know it before he began, but he knows it now. He knows it in his hands.

Quietly, he opens the door, stepping in and scanning the room. If he can figure out where the camera most likely is, he can arrange to ‘carelessly’ throw clothing on it — allowing some fairly pointed photos to be taken, but not ruining the parts he wants to keep for himself. Maybe there is a compromise. Maybe he can walk out of this without losing everything he has gained, tonight.

He wants to throw himself on the bed, to indulge in some tomfoolery, to lighten the mood, but in this case, he knows that will only make it worse. He takes a seat on the corner of the bed, drawing his knees up, to cross his legs, beneath the robe.

Without a word, because there are no more words he knows to say, he holds out a hand to Spock, this time palm up, with two fingers extended.

Spock approaches the foot of the bed. His pulse quickens. He had thought that there might, in fact, be further conversation. He is both troubled and relieved that this is not so.

Lifting his robes at the thigh, he seats himself facing Starek, mirroring his posture, except that one of his feet is still touching the floor. He looks at Starek, swallows, and covers the fingers with two of his own.

Starek slides his hand back, cautiously, stroking the pads of Spock’s fingers, rhythmically, but asymmetrically, like a dance of fingers. Sliding his fingers back toward Spock’s palm, he lets his thumb into the dance, caressing the fingernails of the hand he holds.

As he turns his hand to slide the spaces between their fingers together, curiosity gets the better of him. "Have you been kissed this way, before?"

He knows the answer is more than likely going to be affirmative, for anyone to have made it this long without a kiss, even in Vulcan society, would be fairly ludicrous. But, it pleases him to ask the question, because he thinks it may cause Spock to blush, and he likes that hint of green, high along the cheekbones.

Starek gets what he wants. Spock nods, and blushes too. He retracts his hand somewhat, returning to graze the second joints of Starek’s fingers with his thumb, and, whenever he gets a chance, the knuckles, index finger sliding in tandem beneath. No, he is not entirely inexperienced.

When Starek’s hand stills, Spock progresses to gliding his thumb across the back of Starek’s hand while he continues to massage it from below.

He is able to look at the younger man directly now and he does so without reserve, taking in the depth of his eyes and how his skin reflects the light of the still-young moon. That same light glints off the lettering on the front of Starek’s robe, reminding him of concepts he’d rather forget, at least for the moment.

" _Nam-tor ri’aikum – nash-mu-yor – hi hal-tor zhalanlar ahm t’etek._ " It’s not an accurate statement, at all, and he knows it — in fact, in his distraction, he’s taken a line from a perfectly good Terran song, and laid it out in Vulcan. And there damn well is a moon, tonight, he’s using the light of it to see. He was going to have to watch his mouth, or he would end up proving his heritage at some wholly unfortunate point.

He let his fingertips crackle with an honest passion, as he raises both their hands to his face.

"And have you been kissed like this?" He asks, taking the tip of Spock’s finger into his mouth and sucking.

The hot mouth around his fingers leaves Spock unable to even think, let alone verbalize that no, no one had ever shown him such attention and what has even led Starek to ask such a humiliating question? He has heard of such things, certainly. There were the usual ancient passages that were passed around among adolescents, but surely no one —

But any remaining thought is lost in the sensation of Starek’s tongue, his _tongue_ , against the sensitive pads of his fingers, moving now with a rapidity and skill that leaves him gasping into the silence of the room. And when Starek begins squeezing his lips around the fingers at the same time, Spock very nearly loses his ability to remain sitting upright. Instead, Spock squeezes his eyes shut and dips his head. His mouth is open now, and the fingers of his other hand twitch sympathetically.

Starek’s lips slide from Spock’s fingers with a soft pop. "No objections, yet, I take it?"

He turns Spock’s hand palm up and nibbled along the base of the palm, where it met the wrist. Just enough teeth to be interesting, before he laid a light kiss on Spock’s wrist — a faint brush of lips.

"Will you let me kiss you in the human fashion?" he asked, "I ask because some find it … somewhat invasive."

Spock does more than reply. He raises his head and leans in, meeting Starek’s gaze. He stops a breath away, reversing Starek’s hand and stroking his own thumb into the very center of that smooth palm, waiting.

Starek’s breath catches in his throat. He closes his hand around Spock’s thumb, steadying himself for what he is about to do. He wonders how many more complete perversions of logic and physicality he can ease Spock through in one night. There are, after all, many more uses for a tongue than he’d known when he left the Empire.

With a low hum in the back of his throat, he closes his lips around Spock’s lower one, sucking at it, then catching it in his teeth and pulling back to scrape against the inside. As it slips back out of his mouth, he dives in, full force, lips and tongue against Spock’s lips, and finally, against his tongue, his unoccupied hand at the back of Spock’s neck, squeezing for just a moment, before he forces his fingers to release. He needs to remember to leave an escape route. He promised to be good.

Spock slants his head to accept more of Starek’s probing. The strength and the wetness of it sends an arrow of feeling straight down into his groin, where until now there had been only a pleasantly growing heat. He folds their fingers together and tries exploring Starek’s mouth in turn, shifting closer on the bed in order to have easier access. His other hand comes to rest on Starek’s knee. The touch is light, as if he is not sure his hand belongs there. As Starek feels Spock’s hand settle on his knee, he gives in to the need in his own hand — the hand he’s been holding back, just in case this went poorly.

The multiplicity of sensations that come from joining two mouths — Spock feels as if he could kiss Starek until the moon set and the sun rose after it. There is so much to enjoy in this wet sliding of lips and tongue. Suddenly, there is much about Terran film and literature that makes sense to him.

Softly, he moans into the kisses. There is no way to tell which is more attractive. Starek kissing him with his eyes closed, the lashes dark against his cheeks, or with eyes open and dark with promise. The knowledge in them, the certainty — it is enough to evoke a shiver.

The soft moan is all the confirmation Starek needs that he won’t be perceived as aggressive. He traces his fingers down the edge of Spock’s ear, slipping them around the back, and then rubbing his thumb up, from the inner ridge to the point. It’s one of those things he still loves, himself, even if it doesn’t quite melt him into goo, anymore, after that unfortunate incident on Delta VII. Hell, after that one, he’s lucky to still have a right ear.

As he remembers what it’s like to get stuck in the middle of a major diplomatic incident, an odd plan starts to take shape in his head. He needs T’Nis to get something that will shock the press, and the Ambassador. He also needs to Spock to believe he, himself, wasn’t an active participant. He can do this, but it’s going to involve some significantly indulgent kink, and some heavy-handed manoeuvering.

The fingers of one hand keep at the tip of Spock’s ear, and the others are busy with the Vulcan’s fingers, on the other side. Starek’s tongue flickers through a series of light, darting touches, before he pulls back, sucking at Spock’s lip, again, releasing. He stays there, for a long moment, nose to nose, gazing into Spock’s eyes.

This time it is Spock who puts a hand up to the back of Starek’s neck, one finger luxuriating in the short hairs there. The tactile sensations Starek is creating at his ear cause him to swallow again, and squeeze his eyes shut as he did half a lifetime ago on the sofa. But this time the eyes stay closed and his mouth opens in a kind of soft panting that could have embarrassed him had he been aware of it.

Spock leans his forehead against Starek’s for balance as much as closeness. He hadn’t anticipated that someone so young could be as skilled and wonders if Starek will find this encounter at all satisfactory. The rules of this engagement are foreign to him. If only there had been some kind of primer, something to study beforehand.

"Look at me, Spock. I want to see your eyes." Starek is millimetres from smirking.

As the Vulcan complies, Starek asks a question he knows will probably make Spock blush to halfway down his chest, and Starek only regret is that he won’t see all of it. "Is there anything you want to try? Things you’ve only heard rumours of? Things you’ve imagined impossible, illogical, and obscene?"

Starek is going to thank D’nila, when he gets back to the ship. First for that line, and then for the skills to back it up. There are, he admits, distinct advantages to living with an Orion who likes showing off.

A thousand thoughts circle inside Spock’s mind He imagines total nudity, and postures that made him blush when he first became aware of their existence. He considers restraint, or denial, or the temporary loss of one or more senses. He even pictures Starek, above him, on some alien shore with double red suns overhead. He is probing at a most sensitive location as the waves caress them from all sides.

However, given the possibilities that Starek has already demonstrated, Spock is reluctant to betray his ignorance with some childish fantasy. They might both enjoy themselves more if he shuts up, for once.

"This is already illogical, and obscene," he whispers, clasping Starek’s hand and arching, catlike into the lone digit that is still stroking his ear. But he says it wryly.

"Yet I am confident you can show me more."

Starek leans closer, his finger and his tongue meeting in opposite directions, along the curve of Spock’s ear. He cannot control the shiver that races down his spine: This is Spock, before him — the ambassador’s son, the half-human, the paragon of Vulcan control — inviting him to further sully that lean, Vulcan body. A sudden jealous thought springs up in his head, a thought of Spock having done this before, with someone else — with any number of someone elses.

_Half-human. That’s disgusting if you’re a Vulcan. You know that._

The jealous burn in his blood fades, but does not pass, as he takes the tip of Spock’s ear between his lips, sucking gently. He does not say any of the foolishly romantic things that cross his mind, not least because they all do so in Romulan.

"Anything you want," he breathes, at last. "Everything you want."

He gasps this time, and arches so far into the touch of Starek’s lips that he falls sideways, pulling Starek along. His hands divest Starek of his robe and go next to the belt at his overtunic, tugging it free and then yanking the garment halfway down Starek’s arms. His undertunic is white and thus silvery in the fading light from the west. Spock parts it at the throat kissing down along Starek’s neck with lips on one side, hand on the other.

Starek find himself pinned in the tangle of his own clothes, and finds he does not object very much to this turn of events. As his head tips back, exposing his throat, a word slips out of his mouth, barely audible, even to his own ears, and it takes him a few seconds to register that it is neither Standard nor Vulcan.

" _Taluhk heh vaksurik_ ," he covers, the words hissing out, still barely audible, from his tight throat. " _Wuhinik. Goh-veh._ "

A gasp, a faint groan, and then the sound of his shirts tearing, as his back arches, raising his chest for further attention. Sadly, not even Vulcan clothing stands up well to Vulcanoid strength. It doesn’t matter, really.

" _Ha. . . Estuhl’uh nash-veh . . . ._ "

He caresses Starek’s sides in long sweeping strokes. The two fingers of his dominant hand tingle from it. His other hand is cradling Starek’s head, guiding it away from him so he may suck at the thrumming pulse and feel it beat against his sensitive lips. It inflames him. He is lost.

" _Va’shanosh . . ._ " he murmurs, nibbling at the exposed throat and finding that Starek enjoys this.

Pausing, he kneels back and takes off his own outer robe. It has grown rather cumbersome and hot.

Starek lies still, dazed and panting, for a long moment. Clearly, he has not yet betrayed himself, but that was closer than he might have liked. Just means he’ll have to put his tongue to more creative uses — ones that don’t tend to allow comprehensible words to be produced.

He holds up a hand, first, to make sure he doesn’t do something idiotic, like headbutt Spock on the way up, and, carefully, he sits back up, stripping off the damaged remains of his shirt. Starek is infinitely more comfortable, dressed like this — he wears little more on the bridge, and the coolness and freedom of movement inspire his more reckless impulses.

While he’s up, he figures the boots should go, too, and he drops his own beside the bed, before pulling off Spock’s as well, knocking the Vulcan onto his back. Starek smiles wickedly and visibly before he presses kisses down the centre of the bottom one of Spock’s feet.

Spock arches and digs his fingers into the coverlet.

" _Nam-tor ish-veh wa’rom!_ "

Starek smirks, massaging Spock’s Achilles heel with his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger. " _Ki’gish ten s’nash-veh?_ "

He caresses Spock’s ankle with his tongue, nipping at the thin skin, over the bone. Merciless? Oh, yes. Regularly. And with that thought, he races his tongue along the inner edge of Spock’s foot, from the top of the heel to the ball, where he swirls his tongue, before taking the first toe into his mouth.

There are vortices in the covers where Spock is now clenching his fists. He has planted his other foot and is digging the heel in, head moving from side to side.

" _Nuh’mau! Nam-tor d’mallu du._ "

Starek sits back with a faintly offended expression on his face. He cycles through four languages, rapidly. " _J’objecte! Nam-tor nash-veh ri’kastik!_ And certainly not omnivorous." Here he smirks. " _h’Levreinnye dh’aefnumn._ "

And, with that, he leans in, between Spock’s legs, pushing up the Vulcan’s tunic and undertunic, and traces a curve along the top of Spock’s pants, from one hip to the other, with his tongue.

"It was," and Spock’s abdomen jerks at the contact, "a metaphor."

Uttering a long, low sound, that may just be a growl, he lifts Starek under the arms and hauls him up, so that the younger man is lying atop him, at last fisting a gentle but firm hand in Starek’s short hair. With this leverage, he opens a place to bite down, harder this time.

He withdraws, quite serious. "Now stop teasing me and . . . unnnhhh." It appears that Starek has captured his fingers again.

"I don’t want this to be over too quickly. You are the first Vulcan I have lain with, and I want to be able to enjoy the experience for as long as possible." He punctuates the sentences with squeezes of Spock’s fingertips. "I want to watch you arching and writhing for me all night, and then I want to watch you sink into satiated sleep, with the dawn light on your cheeks."

Starek turns his head, nipping at Spock’s wrist. "I want to smell you on my skin over breakfast, tomorrow. And Vulcans don’t sweat, so that’s going to take an awful lot of contact."

Spock’s eyes widen at the filthy suggestions. To intentionally draw out the act. But rather than disgust him, Starek’s words inflame him. Deep inside, his _le-wuhr-ozh_ twitches. He grasps Starek, claiming his mouth once more. He is more adventurous this time, exploring, reveling in the clash and swirl of tongues.

" _Fleita’uh nash-veh._ "

Starek doesn’t need to be told twice. In fact, being told once was probably more than enough. He interrupts the kiss with cloth, only slightly more gentle with Spock’s clothes than he’d been with his own. Now Spock is beneath him, shirtless and significantly less rational than Vulcan standards permit.

He lives with Orions, and somehow this is the most stunningly erotic situation he can remember being in. With a low and possessive growl, he rolls back into their previous position, pushing himself further down the bed, to open Spock’s pants with his teeth.

* * *

"Can you take up the gain on three?" T’Nis stands before the row of monitors, her hands folded atop the high back of Cash’s chair.

He touches a slider on one of the graphic interfaces. "Mmm. Don’t think we’re gonna get any better in this light."

"Then go to infrared."

Cash grimaces at the poor artistic choice. "On all of them?"

"No, just on three."

Ordinarily, Cash wouldn’t go against anything T’Nis said, but he can tell she is feeling pleased with herself. "I can amp up the contrast in post."

She juts out a lower lip, considering. "Fine then. Carry on." She heads for the door, her silk dressing gown ghosting about her ankles.

"Y’know, T’Nis, I may be here for awhile."

A fine eyebrow rises. "You may at that. Are you saying you’ll want some coffee sent up?"

He leans back in his chair, hands behind his head. "That’s exactly what I’m saying."

She glances at his lap with a broad smirk. "I’ll have it delivered."


	7. Chapter 7

Starek stops, then, with Spock stretched beneath him, pants undone. He should be tearing those pants off, but he’s not. Instead, he buries his face against the open fly and breathes deeply. The pheromone-rich smell is intoxicating — dizzying, even. He breathes it again, and it strikes at his crotch, drawing out a long moan, as his thumbs dig into the tops of Spock’s thighs.

Soon, he knows, he’ll have to move for a complete blackout. Soon, but not quite yet. He’ll give good film a little while longer. And, really, he’s almost tempted to turn on a light, just so he can get a copy of the recording.

Unaware of the reason for the shift in tempo, Spock nonetheless notes it and wonders. He glides his hands down and tenderly strokes Starek head. There is a pleased hum in the vicinity of groin, and this encourages Spock to continue his ministrations. Starek’s hair is really quite remarkable. The feel of it against the sensitive pads of his fingers is exquisite.

"Starek," Spock breathes, " _Eit’jae nash-veh du. Nam-tor t’nash-veh bolaya lo’uk._ "

" _Ashayam_ ," Starek murmurs and, unthinking, repeats himself in Romulan. " _A’rhea_."

He carefully edges the trousers and undergarments down, over Spock’s hips, his eyes closed, and hands certain. After a pause, he spreads his knees and bends back, balanced well, despite the mattress beneath him, to strip Spock bare. He draws the garments off, over his own almost-supine body, before returning to a moderately more vertical position.

Taking a guess at which fixture holds the lens, he tosses the trousers in that direction. Then he takes in the body below him with a gaze that is at once hungry and worshipful. He begins at the knee, tracing out the word for ‘beloved’ up Spock’s inner thigh, in Andorian, with his tongue.

Impatiently, Spock rubs one of his own hands with the fingers of the other, watching the angles of Starek’s shoulders, as he supports himself, hovering. The muscles play beneath his skin in a fascinating dance of light and shadow.

At the end of the Andorian word, Spock catches Starek and draws him up so that he can, at last take Starek’s head in both hands, pressing human kisses to his lids and cheekbones and the line of his jaw as their bodies lie long and warm against one another. But Starek’s pants are in the way. Luckily, removing them is the work of a moment.

Starek nuzzles under Spock’s cheek, barely breathing the next words from his mouth.

"Let’s darken the room." He holds Spock still with a hand on the shoulder, nuzzling his ear.

Spock is confused. " _Tam-kal_ , I enjoy the sight of you." Spock leans in for another kiss, nipping at Starek’s lower lip in the manner that so pleased him earlier. He trails his fingers up the other’s forearm, the fine hairs rising in their wake.

Starek feels the pain of the betrayal Spock’s setting himself up for, as it blossoms in his chest. He draws back, placing a gentle, but lingering kiss on Spock’s lips. "And I you, _a’rhea_. You nearly glow in this light, soft reflections…"

He traces the paths of the light with his fingers, stopping, at last, to squeeze Spock’s hip, thumb tracing along the curve of the bone. Then he moves his hand, cupping Spock’s ass, pulling the Vulcan closer to his own body. He kisses Spock’s lips, then, with a smirk, uses his nose to push up Spock’s chin, and begins to kiss his way down the lean body, using his weight to roll them over, so that once again, he is on top. He stops to nip at the tops of both hips, and to lick the inner curve of one, where the bone forms the cradle of Spock’s belly.

And because now he can watch the blush, he asks, "And have you ever been kissed like this?"

He wraps his lips around the exposed tip of Spock’s _lok_ and laps at it for a moment, before raising his head and waiting for an answer.

Spock only moans and shakes his head. How can Starek even speak, and with that matter-of-fact tone, no less? The lurid question is stimulating to the point of madness. Just that voice, those few strokes of the tongue, and Spock is helpless.

Everything about Spock is clenched after that initial nova of feeling. His hands (fingers digging into the palms), his jaw (eyes pressed shut), his glutes, his abs. It is all he can do to just throw his head to the side and push his hips upward, silently begging for more.

Starek knows he’ll have to be cautious. Too much of this, and well, he doesn’t know what the lag time’s going to be, or if Spock’s even going to be able to stay awake. He pushes Spock’s legs up and apart, lowers his head, and licks along the creases where his thighs join his body, first one side, then the other. He blows a stream of cool air along the rather verdant flesh that juts onto Spock’s belly. And then, praying that his neck stays intact, as he ducks his head once more, dragging his tongue from the point at which Spock’s body meets the bed all the way to the tip of that rich green _t’an_ , drawing a long, hissing breath from its owner.

Although Spock wants to dig his fingers into Starek’s shoulders, he forces himself to just hold them. He doesn’t caress or massage or pull down, he just touches, feeling the strength there, wondering at how Starek can still be so flippant in is tone, yet so poetically sincere in his attentions.

He is masterful, Spock thinks, with more than a little of his own reverence now.

Spock’s touch is so undemanding that it immediately garners all of Starek’s attention. He looks up, mild concern in his eyes, and catches the gleam of reverent confusion. Certainly not the worst he’s done, not by a long shot.

With a slim smile, he pushes Spock’s legs up, lifting the Vulcan’s hips ever so slightly. He brings his head down, again, passionately applying his lips and tongue to the single most irrational part of Spock’s body imaginable. With a low groan, he dips his tongue inside — just the faintest push — before tracing that ring of muscle with his tongue, and raising his head with the same slim smile.

"I don’t think you need to tell me you’ve never been kissed like that. It’s an entirely illogical pleasure."

Spock gives one, two, three panting breaths, mouth open, eyes on the ceiling.

"Your illogical approach may have some advantages."

Starek backs off to stare down at him again. "Now. I’m sure I’ve put some ideas in your head." Starek lifts an eyebrow in amusement. "I’ll ask the same question I did, before, but with less of a moral tone: Which implausibilities would you like me to teach you the finer points of?"

He untangles himself from Spock’s legs, and pulls himself back up, with as much flesh-on-flesh friction as possible, to look straight down into Spock’s eyes.

Spock slides his hands along Starek’s upper arms, wondering if he dares say what’s on his mind.

"You must make use of me." he dictates, his eyes dark and hungry. "In any way you wish. Speaking to me as much as possible. And then if we could . . . cleanse one another." Spock’s eyes drift to the bathroom with its hydrous delights. He thinks longingly of the shower, of how Starek would look leaning against the tiled wall, water clothing him in a rippling layer.

This time it’s Starek’s turn to be stunned with pleasure. There is a slight creak as the mattress resists the spread of his hands as his fingers tense. Hazy-eyed, he retains enough mental function to smirk, smugly.

" _Tizh-tor spes t’nash-veh ha? Kup-ar’kada be’ish-veh._ " He puts his tongue out, tracing it along Spock’s bottom lip. "Any languages you don’t want to hear?"

"None."

"Excellent." Starek presses a kiss to Spock’s lips, then pulls away, moving back down the bed. " _Aitlu nekwitau lahv t’nash-veh svi’pekh-razh t’du. Palikauk dungi nem-tor lok t’du ru’lut t’nash-veh heh vitem-tor._ "

The next time his mouth opens, it is to accomplish exactly that. He twists his head from side to side, working that sleek organ into the top of his throat. With a long breath in, he pulls air across the tip, and then swallows, hard, using his tongue to cycle the pressure. Not willing to surrender to the inevitable, just yet, he slides back, holding just the head between his lips, as he watches the reaction.

" _Ahhhh! Ofereiksu — dungi-aiyahl!_ "

Starek’s precise and beautiful words are almost enough in themselves to bring Spock to his crisis. The combination of this with Starek’s ability to bring forth sensation is absolutely devastating.

Spock swirls his hips, bucks them, seeking more pleasure, he is greedy for it.

" _Ri’ofereiksu. Is’uh t’nash-veh ahm_ ," Starek insists, letting his first prize fall from his lips as he sinks to the second.

" _Hna fascae arhva hrrafv hwai dhhaol_ ," he murmurs, before pressing the tip of his tongue into Spock’s body, and getting forced back out, as the muscles contract. He licks again, softly, teasing, tempting. This is a skill he doesn’t put to use nearly as often as he’d like to, but he knows he’s good enough to fake his way around someone who’s never had it done. He uses his lips to stretch the flesh a bit, and darts his tongue in and out of the shallow opening.

Spock spreads his legs, feeling even more lightheaded than on his earlier escape to the courtyard. That _tongue_. Not only has logic left him, but he fears that reason may be on its way out as well.

Starek’s hands are braced on the insides of his thighs, and Spock covers them with his own trembling ones, urging Starek to push his legs further apart if he needs to. Anything he needs will be his and his alone.

The hands against his own are broadcasting in exactly the way they wouldn’t be, if their owner was still in control of his senses. Starek sits up, suddenly, a splash of apologetic fear on his face.

"You’ve never done this before. I mean, not, this, that’s obvious, but … in general. This is your first time, isn’t it?" He looks stunned for a long moment. "I’m sorry… I’m probably going to ruin you."

The wicked grin is back as Starek slicks his fingers off his own _oh’a’did_ , and rubs one where his tongue had been. "Definitely too early in the night for this, then."

He blinks and then swallows. "Ruin me? No, this is –"

But then he understands and blushes hotly. Further evidence of his inexperience.

Starek knows he is smirking, and he cannot stop, as he pulls his hand away.

" _She’uh fi’mal-nef t’du._ " He beckons with that still-slicked finger. " _Zahv’uh nash-veh._ "

It takes Spock a moment to get his knees under him but manages at last. He leans towards Starek, who is also kneeling, and rests his forehead against the other’s shoulder.

"Show me."

"I will." Starek puts a bracing hand on Spock’s shoulder, and steps back off the bed, gaining a few inches. "Sit down onto your heels, and put your hands on the edge of the bed. It’s less uncomfortable, that way."

He takes his cock in one hand and angles it forward. "Just put out your tongue and lick. If you like it, enjoy it. If you don’t, I’ll find something more fun."

Spock does as instructed, but very quickly colors outside the lines. It’s not that he doesn’t like the sensation of Starek’s _tash-fek_ in his mouth, it’s that he likes it too much. He likes slippery feel of it against his tongue, and then his cheek — he can’t help rubbing — and, the taste of it, and the scent, suffusing his consciousness, giving the impression of a wild fruit that he’s always seen beyond a fence but only just been allowed to consume.

All of this means that licking progresses very quickly to sucking, and then holding, because his hands come off the bed. One is resting overtop of Starek’s hand and the other at the small of Starek’s back, pulling him in.

* * *

T’Nis murmurs to her prisoner, her voice smooth, but edged with something darker. "Had I mentioned that you are a consummate actress?"

Amber, propped up in the crook of T’Nis’s arm, is flushed, panting, and well on her way to a second climax.

"Unnhh," she says, incoherently.

"No, I’m quite serious. That line about your mother using lavender in her recipe? And afterwards, when you looked so terribly unsettled. ‘Oh, do accept what I’ve made Commander Spock, I would so very much like to please you’."

The blonde turns her head away and fists her hands in the sheets.

T’Nis leans in closer. "Little slut," she whispers fondly.

She returns her attention to the lone monitor, here in her bedroom. The view just now is from camera four which is observing from high in one corner.

Spock is laid out quite agreeably on the tangled bedspread, with Starek probing between his legs. Then he beckons and Spock rises to his knees, follows him to the edge of the bed and soon has that long, glistening Romulan cock between too-eager lips.

T’Nis gives a little cry of delight, pressing her own thighs tight together.

* * *

Starek moans, his legs stiffening as he resists the urge to thrust. _Don’t break the virgin,_ his mind reminds him, and it becomes a steadying mantra as he watches those thin lips slide over his flesh.

"Ha. . ." he gasps, unwilling to break the promise to keep talking. "Yes, _ie_ — fuck — _Weht! Taurauk! Nam-tor du taurauk!_ Spock –" _He trails off into a long, desperate groan._

There’s a thought pulling at his ear, though it takes a minute or two to get his attention. "Don’t worry, I won’t surprise you. Takes more than this to set me off, without my intent. Keep going as long as it pleases you. Do whatever you like; I’ll let you know if it’s a bad idea."

Both of Spock’s hands are on Starek’s hips now, pulling him into his mouth. He is inexpert, he knows it. Sometimes there is a scrape of teeth and once, to his consternation, he gags, but it is as if they are again by the pool and Starek is offering him water, only this this time he seizes the glass and gulps it down.

 _Orion gesture of apology, indeed,_ Spock thinks to himself. _Starek, you wanted this all along_.

The Romulan twitches at the teeth, but only the slightest bit. He’s had worse from people who claimed to have a lot more experience. When Spock chokes on him, his eyes roll back in his head, at the pressure.

"Maut lamekh! Maut rom! So fucking good, Spock!" He trembles, slightly, but otherwise, he is statue-still. "Do you like it? I want you to tell me, and then you can go back to what you’re doing. Or something else. I don’t think I’m in any shape to care, as long as your mouth touches me somewhere –" he gasps "– Fucking incredible!"

"Yes, I –" he gasps, pausing to wipe his mouth. "Please, come down." and Spock pulls at him, guiding his hips to the bed, sliding him up it, until he can lean over Starek and, now at a more leisurely pace, slide his mouth up and down Starek’s virescent flesh. Spock pauses now and then to try sucking hard, to see how deep he can go, to see what happens when he adds a hand, stroking in tandem with his mouth. He revels each new experience. Especially the one of sliding a cautious finger down between Starek’s cheeks and tracing what he finds there.

Starek’s vision is splotchy from the pleasure, as he moans and begs for more, which is not at all a normal state of things. He wonders how much of it is just that this is Spock — that this entirely implausible event, directly out of his late-night fantasies, is actually happening.

He props himself on one elbow, looking down the length of his body to the Vulcan so thoroughly pleased with the taste of him. It’s an incredible rush to watch Spock — of all the people in the quadrant, _Spock_ — sucking on him.

"The finger," he notes, finally. "Lick it, first. At least."

Spock does better. He gives himself a few easy strokes, enough to slick up his hand, and then returns, exploring quietly, his other hand rubbing slowly along Starek’s length. Having Starek in both of his hands now is most intoxicating. Growing bolder, he nudges at Starek’s entrance, wondering if the pressure around his very sensitive finger will be as — he gasps — no, it’s even more pleasurable than he thought, and he thrusts twice, involuntarily, into the mattress.

No, this is too much. It will be his undoing. He needs Starek’s hands or mouth or eyes on him soon because he is so very close . . .

Starek notices Spock’s thrusts, feels the bed move under him. He holds his hand out, invitingly. "Come to me, _k’diwa_. You’ll burn yourself out, doing that."

He lies back, dragging Spock up over his body, gently kissing his forehead, his lips. Taking Spock’s hand in his own, Starek does his best to radiate calm, as his other hand strokes the Vulcan’s back. "A little too much, I think, a little too fast."

He kisses Spock’s lips, again. "Let us take a little time. Tell me one of your fantasies, and I’ll tell you one of mine."


	8. Chapter 8

"A little time . . ." Spock gasps. He’s incredulous. It seemed as though his lover, with his easy manner and playful smiles, believes there is nothing but time. Can’t Starek sense his need? Does he feel none of it himself? Spock has labored — true a most pleasurable kind of employment, but nonetheless striven — to impart some of his urgency with his tongue, but apparently Starek is made of stronger stuff.

Spock moves off to one side and growls against Starek’s neck. "You will begin. I require an interval," and he emphasizes the word with a thrust of his slick and straining _la’ash_ against Starek’s thigh, "in order to collect myself."

Starek groans, fingers flexing, and reaches out to pull Spock more firmly against his body. "If I begin, I fear one of two things will happen: either you will come undone, or you will call me a fool and walk away."

He turns his head, to kiss Spock’s forehead.

"For I have dreamed of you." Starek takes a sudden deep breath, and his chest heaves with it. "I have not spoken lies to you, yet. I can feel that thought — it’s very strong. I may have left things unsaid, but I have said nothing untrue."

He rolls the muscles of his thigh against Spock. "Ever since I first saw your image, heard your name, knew the breadth of your boldness — did you really turn down an offer from the _Shi’Oren t’Ek’Tallar_? — I wanted to touch you. I’ve wanted to feel you surrender to my hands, and now that I have you, it’s better than I ever imagined."

"I wanted to find you in the rain, on the shores of the Voroth, dancing with the water, as our people once did. But, neither of us, I know, are terribly inclined to spend time on Vulcan, these days. I have dreamed myself waiting, soaked and clothed, a supplicant at your mercy, for an invitation to touch your wet flesh, to lick the water from your skin." Starek’s hand shakes, as he strokes Spock’s side. "I dreamed of you, but you are better than I could have imagined. _Nam-tor du yeht. Nam-tor du._ "

Spock cuddles closer, gripping Starek’s opposite shoulder, running his thumb along the top of it.

" _Vesht run-tor t’nash-veh ha? Trau-es?_ "

"Yes, I dreamed of you. _Zung-tor sutra t’nash-veh t’ahm t’du_." Starek rolls to the side, hooking one leg over Spock’s hip, draping his arm across that same body, to lazily toy with the back of Spock’s hair.

"I would ask if that was really so shocking, but the more I think on it, the more I realise it probably is, and that thought…" He closes his eyes. "That thought makes me feel."

He grabs Spock’s hand and lets his disgust with the present state of Vulcan society fill him. "These who would greet those from other worlds, with open hands, would turn you away because some part of you is from one of those worlds. They will not see that you are as sensible and witty as they, nor that you are so sleekly beautiful, because they are too busy turning a blind eye — trying to pretend you do not exist. It _infuriates_ me."

The protective rage radiates from Starek, like heat, until he draws it in, sets it aside. "Too many years as an artist. I’ll never be Academy material," he jokes, trying to explain away his Romulan passions, pressing another kiss to Spock’s forehead.

The degree to which Starek has felt protective of Spock surprises the older man. He brings their clasped hands to his lips to place human kisses there. "I fear you have been away from T’Khasi too long, _yeht-veh_. Those that feel disgusted by my heritage are a minority. Most are perfectly willing to accept my genetic differences provided I control my emotions."

Starek stiffens at the appellation. "My blood no more than yours, _k’diwa_ ," he mutters. "But that is a story for another time."

"Even I display control, when faced with those who are confused without it. Remember that my knowledge of you comes only from public media and gossip-hounds, neither of whom have been kind, as regards your heritage." He pulls his hand away and caresses Spock’s cheek. "In my line of work, I meet mostly the dregs of a society, on any given day of the week."

With a slim smile, Starek rolls his hips, grinding against Spock. "But, we were talking about fantasies. I’ve given you mine. Tell me yours."

Spock pauses, gathering courage.

"In my adolescence, a cadre of Romulan dissidents made it as far as Shi’Khar. They sought audience with high-ranking Vulcans in order to discuss what might be done promote peace between our two races. Few attended any of the open discussions, held over several days, but I attended all of them.

"The Romulans struck me as intelligent and sincere. And there was a fire to them, a quality that . . ." he trails off. "I found their leader particularly compelling. I was . . . drawn to him."

" _Kaevra nnea-Daemnh_ , we called him. I’m barely old enough to remember… He was quite mad, and wholly charismatic." Starek laughs, then tilts Spock’s face up with a finger beneath the chin, placing one light kiss on his lips.

He realises he’s fucked himself. ‘We called him’, indeed. He needs to say it before Spock puts the pieces together. Starek thinks he’ll lose the chance if Spock sees through him, now, but there’s a chance he’ll come out of it, both intact and victorious, if he confesses. The very idea of losing frightens him so badly he can feel his _elat _ start to retract — it’s not a fear of dying, it’s a fear of dying before he has the chance to finish what he’s started. He’s staring into a years-long dream, and if he doesn’t play his cards right, he’ll ruin his chances, and he won’t live long enough to try again.

Don’t start laughing, he tells himself. _If you laugh, this is going to get a lot less funny, very fast, and less funny than this is not something you want to see._

Starek comforts himself with the thought that at the very least, Spock has found a Romulan appealing. This could work in his favour. It’s unlikely, but possible. _Payr dermai qiuu’n hrrau khefv_ , he reminds himself.

His thoughts wind down, into a thick and heavy pause.

"Now is the time. I have something I must tell you," he mutters, still trying to suppress the laugh. "If I do not, I will become a parody of myself, and my race."

"Would it surprise you to know," he asks, eyes alight with amusement, "that for all I have implied it, I am no _thaessu_. I have watched my words. I have done no more than imply. _Khhya arhem …_ " He trails off, taking a deep breath. " _Khhya arhem Rihanh._ "

Spock’s lips at first gently part. After a moment, they come back together in a firm line, emphasizing the set of his jaw. He draws back slowly, making no sudden movements, until he is standing beside the bed. The light from the large western window is behind him, leaving his face in shadow.

"You will explain."

"Yeah, okay, that couldn’t possibly go well." Starek sighs, sitting up. "You have witnessed how well Romulans go over in Federation space. You’ve also touched my face enough to know my brow is smooth. I let people think I’m a Vulcan, because it keeps me alive."

He crosses his legs, turns his palms out at his knees, and looks up at Spock, as he speaks. "I am the _Rihanha_ Starek, born in 2237 on the world of _ch’Rihan_ , in a small village not far from the valley of Chula. We are not encouraged to leave our world, except in military service, and neither Stavret nor I felt a need to kill people we knew nothing about.

"Stavret, my best and only, took to the sciences, and I to the arts. We were — still are, actually — well matched, in that. He’s a bit older, between your age and mine, if my data is correct." Starek does not watch Spock, as he speaks. His eyes have gone glassy and distant.

"Two and a half years ago, we stole an ancient Klingon scout ship from the back of a government junkyard, and fled the Empire. We wanted to live life for ourselves, not the life he propagandists wanted us to lead.

"We fell in with some … interesting parties, in a less than — what’s the word — kosher part of the galaxy. They aren’t important. What’s important is that we managed to refit the ship, by doing some work, and get her a clean registry off a forged scrap ticket from a Federation junkyard. She’s my ship, now. Stavret still has no trust for any man’s politics, and I don’t blame him. I have no homeworld, either, and I do not seek one.

"In this time, there were good days and bad days — Stavret carried me out of the middle of a barfight I admit to having started because I heard someone use your name as an example of what was wrong with the Alpha Quadrant, these days. I got caught in the middle of someone else’s politics, out on Delta VII — damn near lost my ear. Without Merendith, I would have. Bought myself a set of five Orion girls, and set them loose in engineering — they really are brilliant, even if they do occasionally break things, and make Stavret crazy. Actually, I may like them all the more for their effect on Stavret. He needs to have more fun. None of this is relevant.

"What is relevant is that I led a less than admirable life, for a time, so that I could have the life I wanted. What is relevant is that T’Nis offered to introduce me to you, and I leapt at the opportunity. What is relevant is that your blood is no fancier than mine." His eyes finally focussed again, sharp and ironic. "Go ahead. Do what you must. It’s my own fault for trusting. And speaking of trust and issues thereof, I still stand by my earlier statements on the subject."

Spock’s hands twitch at his sides. "Your earlier statements?"

"Statements on the nature of guest quarters." He cocks his chin at the windows, but does not make an explicit statement, in case the sound is on.

Spock takes a slow, deep breath. He seats himself on a chair near the window, his back bent, his elbows braced on his knees. For several _lirt’k_ he studies the floor between his feet.

When he rises, his expression is once more blank and unreadable.

"I have a request to make of you. It is one which you are free to refuse and if you do so, I also will hold no grudge.

"Will you . . . open your mind to me?"

"Parts of it, yes. Most of it, even. However, there are some recollections that are mine, and mine alone, and I ask you not to pry. And of course, I cannot share with you the things that may endanger others of my acquaintance." Starek considers, for a few moments, ordering his thoughts as he learned to do in the company of Betazoids. "All of my life on Romulus is yours to examine. You are welcome to my memories of the neutral zone. After that, you will find some rather vast swaths I will fight to keep you out of. Again, nothing personal, but that information cannot be allowed to leak. The damage would be irreparable."

He holds out his hand to Spock. "Can you agree to these terms?"

"I agree. None of the things you have mentioned pertain to what I seek. However, I require the full meld. You will need to trust me."

"Frankly, I don’t see why I should. It’s likely you’ll gut my wits, and toss me to the dogs. I could be executed by the end of the week, on your testimony alone." Starek stands, folding his hands behind his back. "That said, I’m yours. Do whatever the hell you like. I will go without honour, but with one of my dreams fulfilled."

Spock approaches Starek and holds his fingers to the meld points. He closes his eyes and enters.

First, he spins through Starek’s recollection of this evening, hearing his thoughts, and seeing all that has transpired from the Romulan’s of view. His second search is longer. He goes far into the past, comparing long-distant memories with what Starek has just confessed to him here in this room. He is gratified to see that they match.

The final piece of information is close to the surface and therefore easy to find.

It comes to him as a recollection. of a comfortable place, a room of wood and brass, where Starek feels at home. T’Nis sits across a table from him. She is smirking, a glass of Romulan ale held lightly in her hand.

"Your ancestry is, of course, the final key. Sarek’s precious son with a Romulan."

Spock quickly breaks the contact.

Starek is jolted by that revelation — the one thing he tried most to keep back. Shaking his head, dizzied and angry, he grabs Spock’s hands — both hands — and recounts his other thoughts of the evening: shame, regret, even attempts at extrication that fell on deaf ears.

The Romulan sinks to his knees, still holding on, as the spinning overtakes him. "Doesn’t matter, anyway," he mutters, "Just wanted the chance. Couldn’t let myself down. Then I saw your face, and I couldn’t let you down. But, I was already sold. I did my best to meet the technicalities, but not the spirit, but you fought me on that.

" _K’diwa_ , all I ask is that you let me notify my ship, so they will not be waiting for me any longer. I’m yours. The game is over. Do whatever the hell you like."

Spock extricates one of his hands and places it on Starek’s shoulder.

"Be at ease. I will do nothing to harm you."

Gently, and to Starek’s surprise, Spock brings the Romulan towards him, enfolding him in a soft embrace.

" _Yeht-veh_ ," he murmurs. "Earlier you quoted Surak. ‘ _Ma etek natyan teretuhr lau etek shetau weh-lo’uk do tum t’on_ ‘."

He whispers against Starek’s hair. "Do you still believe it?"

" _Kwon-sum,_ " Starek breathes against Spock’s skin. "It is, I think, what keeps my crew together."

Still, he remains tense, expecting things to go more wrong than they have. It is, generally, the way these things unfold, and without his clothes — well, he’s faced things almost as bad, without clothes.

Spock steps away from him and towards the control panel set into the wall by the windows. He examines it for a moment and holds down the same switch that T’Nis used earlier to polarize the windows.

The room goes pitch dark.

Starek remains still. "Does this mean you’ll come back to bed?" he asks, flippantly, unable to stay outwardly serious in a situation which may yet end him.

Spock’s voice, when it next reaches Starek’s ears, is coming from right beside them.

"Is this what you wish?"

"What I wish is to get us both the fuck out of here, right now, and continue this in _my_ bed, which I’m sure you’re familiar with, by now," Starek hisses, almost silently.

"I would also prefer that any further interactions between us remain . . . between us. However, some subterfuge will be required before we may safely leave this place."

Spock takes Starek under his arm and steers them unerringly towards the bathroom. All it requires is a modest amount of caution and a memory of where objects in the room had been. Beyond the threshold of the other room, Spock goes more slowly, since his idea of the chamber relied on Starek’s memories only. But they managed without colliding with anything.

Spock leans over the edge of the tub, keying for the hottest water available.

* * *

"Shit!"

Cash gives a whack to the edge of one of the monitors. A minute ago he’d been giving the odd glance to their pointy-eared heart-to heart wondering when in God’s name were they ever gonna fuck — T’Nis wouldn’t be happy without her money shot — and now every screen has gone out at once.

"Get off me," he snarls, yanking Skye up by the hair. She rubs her lips dazedly, wondering what’s going on.

But once Cash remembers the IR setting, he sees what’s happened. They’re just in the bathroom.

He zooms in on six and seven, delighted by this opportunity to make Starek look as unattractive as possible. People always look fatter at longer wavelengths. It’s a resolution thing.

"Call my poem butchery, you two-faced fuck."

* * *

" _Dh’partrai efvi mnean jhu nnea-aekhhwi, partrai mnean?_ " Starek whispers, in amusement. "I need to get my pants, if we’re going to make it out of here, intact. Can’t hail the ship without… I have an idea. Wait for me."

He kisses Spock’s cheek, and eases out of the bathroom, in the blackness, picking up clothing as he draws closer to the bed. He checks everything, looking for pockets, since that’s what it should look like he’s doing, and finally ties up the clothing into a robe and tosses it beside the bathroom door. He can hear it hit the wall, and is pretty sure he aimed correctly. He sits on the edge of the bed and considers the room — extending his arm and using the sense of its length against the memories in his head, to calculate distance. After a moment, he goes to the closet to retrieve his bag as well as a toy he asked T’Nis to leave for him. He does not trust the toy, but it will provide cover for his intent. As far as anyone knows, his bag is packed for quite the adventure, which it is, but it also contains a homing beacon and the finer components of his escape kit — sadly few of which would be useful, under the circumstances. With these things in hand, he moves back toward the bathroom, tripping over the clothes and dropping the toy, which bounces away into the gloom. The clothes thump against a cabinet in the bathroom, and Starek flails and sits down, hard.

All is going according to plan.

"Forgive me," he says, "I don’t know this room as well as I might." With that, he closes the bathroom door, and reaches out until he finds Spock’s hand, and then traces those fingers across his smile.

Spock brings Starek up to where he is seated on the rim of the tub, and guides the younger man into his lap. The room is not hot enough yet.

"It would seem the meld is not always necessary to exchange ideas, is it _tal-kam_?"

"No, _k’diwa_ , I do not think it is." Starek slides himself down, close and tight against Spock’s body. "It is said that Vulcans do not sweat. Shall we prove the point, once and for all?"

He licks the rim of Spock’s ear, nibbling at the tip. "Pretty pictures as we fade away, then?" he breathes, rolling his hips and rubbing his chest against Spock’s. "Nothing wrong here, nothing at all… And we’ll be gone before anyone’s the wiser."

"Indeed." Spock asserts, sliding his hands down to cup Starek’s ass and squeeze.

* * *

The comm in T’Nis’s room chimes more than once before she is able to answer.

"Cash, what is it now?"

"I’m getting a lot of interference from the steam."

Drowsily, T’Nis eyes the hazy forms on the monitor. After the tongue-lashing Amber has given her, she’s in no to babysit the videographer, or his subjects.

"They can’t stay in there all night. Besides, I know Starek. He’ll want to give a good performance for the finale."

* * *

Starek sniffs at the air, testing the heat and humidity, before returning his attentions to Spock. Shifting his hips back just far enough to allow air to pass between their bodies, he rolls his hips again, not quite making contact, and groans, low and hot. He traces his fingers across Spock’s lips.

"Tell me when we’re clear, _Ek’talsu_. I’ll put on a show, but don’t let yourself get too distracted," he breathes into Spock’s ear, thrusting his hips again, before leaning back to run both hands down Spock’s chest.

Spock goes after the fingers, but just brushes his lips across them, as his hands rest lightly on Starek’s hips "Just a few more minutes. What is our route?"

"The direct one. I tag my homing beacon, and you hang on for dear life. D’nila can get us out of here, no problem," Starek whispers, licking very close to Spock’s ear. "Well, okay, you should probably stand _behind_ me, and hold on, unless you want my chief of engineering getting an eyeful. I’d say get dressed, but I’m not up for wasting time or moving too much steam."

"Very well."

Spock’s hand moves up to the back of Starek’s neck, bringing him in for one last kiss. Then he stands.

"It is time."

Starek steps back, and picks up the bag and the bundle of clothing. He hands the clothing to Spock and pulls the beacon from the bag. "Arms around my waist. Ten seconds."


	9. Chapter 9

As Spock takes hold, he hits the button, waits five seconds, and then makes three double-pulses with the signal. Five seconds later, they’re coming into being in the transporter room, and D’nila’s running toward him.

" _Riov!_ " D’nila grabs Starek by the shoulders, wild-eyed, and looks him up and down. "Are you all right? You’re … naked."

She takes a long moment to parse that, then looks over his shoulder, and notices Spock. She gasps. "And you’re Spock! Oh, this is the dreamiest! Commander, you must be so happy! And such timing! Riena and I just finished fixing the replicator. And your shower’s not broken any more."

"Thank you, D’nila." Starek rubs his nose with hers. "Can you step out for just a moment, so the _zhel-lan_ , here, can put on some clothes, before we have to walk down the halls?"

"Modesty, of course. I always forget, because you have none, _Riov_." D’nila winks at Spock, as she steps into the hall.

"Orions." Starek shrugs.

Spock darts an amused look at Starek and bends to look for his clothes.

He finds his pants first. "I admit, I had not thought to bring any sort of beacon on leave with me. A lesson learned perhaps."

"What can I say? You’re not a starship pirate. It’s not the sort of thing that occurs to nice boys." Starek laughs.

"And just throw on the robe. You’re not going to be wearing clothes long enough for it to matter, if I can help it." Starek bends over and hands one of the robes to Spock, before draping the rest of the pile of cloth over his bag. He does not make any attempt to get dressed, and rather hopes he runs into Stavret, in the hall, just to see his best friend choke on his own tongue. It would be a great memory to add to a fantastically peculiar day.

"We’re headed for Deck One. Turbolift’s just down the hall a piece. It’s a fairly small ship."

As directed, Spock pulls on one of the robes — not his own. He resists the desire to hold the front of it closed with one hand as he follows Starek down the hall, as any display of modesty in the face of Starek’s apparent lack of it would appear ludicrous at best.

"Starek." Spock’s eyes are bright with desire,"Are you characteristically seen on board your vessel in such a state of undress?"

"This is by no means an unusual state of affairs. Last week, I was on the bridge wearing a towel. You never know when something idiotically urgent is going to happen, in space." Starek shrugs, hitting the button for the turbolift. "There are only eight people aboard this ship, and five of them are Orions. Of the other three, two are my best friend and I. Who am I going to offend, the Andorian? She’s a doctor.

"Stavret might choke to see us headed down the hall, right now, but that wouldn’t be because I’m not dressed. It would be because I am both undressed and in your company."

He steps into the turbolift, waiting for Spock to join him. "Deck One."

Spock does so. Even though both his upbringing and his military training dictate that he not let his gaze caress Starek’s lean, muscular body, Spock is unable to help himself.

Starek steps out into the hall, and walks the a few yards to his door. "This is my room. You’ve been in my head, so I don’t suppose it matters that you’ll see this, too, although my affairs are generally conducted in the guest quarters down on three."

He taps in his passcode without looking, and the doors slide open to reveal a room panelled in dark wood, with brass fixtures. It’s a small room, as far as officers’ quarters on modern starships go, but it has all the appropriate amenities, including recreations of an eighteenth-century Terran style table and chairs, by the replicator. A mahogany canopy bed rests against the far wall of the room, and the bathroom is accessible to the right. Through that open door, a vast marble bath can be seen occupying most of the floor-space. In fact, one must stand in the bath to use the sink.

"I’ve done the best I can, with what little I have, and I think I’ve done well. It’s my refuge — when D’nila hasn’t flooded it out. Getting that bathtub in caused some fairly memorable problems." He turns, stepping backward into the room, and spreads his arms. "Welcome to my only home."

"I believe the idiom for this situation is ‘first things first’." He takes one step closer to Starek and holds him gratefully. "Thank you for a most memorable rescue."

Half of Starek’s mouth pulls up into a smile, eyes glimmering in smug amusement. "I’m told I’m rather good at those, when I haven’t gotten myself in so deep to need an extraction, myself."

He catches Spock around the shoulders with one arm, pulling him into a kiss of the sort one tends to see on the covers of romance novels. It would be a more effective visual if he was wearing his usual style of clothing, but he figures he can make the best of his undress.

Both of Spock’s hands are on the back of Starek’s head, positioning it just so. In the back of his mind is the idea that there are other matters to attend to, but he is still besotted with feeling — and chocolate. He kisses deeply and with a degree of enthusiasm that lets Starek know there will be no grudge. Hard feelings, now that is another matter.

When they come up for air he growls against Starek’s ear, tracing it lightly with his tongue. "I believe, earlier, you had offered me water."

"My water is yours, _k’diwa_ , in any and every way you want it to be." Starek steps back, and sinks to the ground, knees wide. He spits into his hands and raises them in offering, turning his gaze to the ground. " _Masu t’nash-veh terish k’t’du._ "

He drags his fingers across Starek’s palms, scooping up the wet and bringing it to his to his own mouth.

"Look at me."

At Starek’s assent, he swallows his own index and middle fingers, drawing them out slowly, skimming them down his torso to the waistband of his pants which he unfastens and pushes down, stepping on the hems to remove them completely. The last function of the two water fingers is to ease down onto either side of his slit and push inward, allowing Spock’s semi-erect penis to extend fully.

He steps forward, a hand on Starek’s hair. " _Heh t’nash-veh k’t’du._ "

" _K’diwa…_ " Starek breathes, eyes glazed and glittering with astonished lust. There is only a split second, before he has taken Spock’s verdant cock into his mouth, sucking and licking, desperate for sensation as the slick skin slides across his lips.

His hands clutch desperately at Spock’s sharp hips, and he grinds his palms against them, with a heated moan — more of a hum, with his mouth so full. Starek spreads his knees farther, stretching his skin in tantalizing ways as he grinds himself down against his heels.

* * *

" _Khrikha-‘t’var’eth!!!_ "

Amber, now dressed in athletic shoes, pants, and a t-shirt appears at the door to the control room wherein Cash and Skye are huddling, wide-eyed. Even so far away from the actual room where the screams and destruction are taking place, it they can hear everything distinctly.

"I dunno about you guys, but I think we should head." She shows them her palm, with the keys to a hovercar on a ring around her middle finger.

" _Lunikkh ta’vik! Dungi tresahk-tor du, sa-fu t’Tlingansu-aylak!_ " There is the sound of breaking glass.

The other two don’t need to be told twice. They head down to the garage and pile into one of the vehicles, Amber and Cash in the front, Skye in the back.

Once they’re speeding into the desert night, Amber looks around at the others. "So, where to, you guys? Tommy’s?"

Skye perks up. "Yes! For pancakes!"

"Only you could think of stuffing your fat face right now," Cash snarls at her.

"Hey now," Amber jumps in, "Just because somebody ruined your cross-species skin-flick."

"Just drive, " he shoots back, arms folded.

"Sheesh. You’d think it was your years-in-the-making revenge-scheme gone wrong."

Cash forbears to comment.

Unnoticed, in the back, Skye puts up her hand to hide a smile.

* * *

After a few minutes, Starek realises that Spock isn’t so much thrusting as he is wobbling. With a faint and distorted smile, he pulls back and stands.

"Shall we take this to the bed? I don’t think Merendith would be too pleased with me if I gave you a concussion. I don’t think _I’d_ be too pleased with me, either." Starek’s lips twitch, and one eyebrow creeps up as he sweeps aside one side of the deep green drape that conceals all but the wood of his bed, and drops it behind the hook that exists for that purpose. He has revealed a set of dark violet sheets.

"I hope the colours aren’t too dramatic for you. Apparently, my sense of aesthetics nauseates some people." He lays back across the bed in one smooth motion, setting one foot on the mattress, and raising that knee. Propping himself on one elbow, he sucks the first two fingers of his other hand, invitingly.

" _Yeht-veh_ , you seem to be invoking an old Terran cliché." He approaches the bed and stops at the end of it. He is rampant. "I assure you, the color-scheme is unimportant at this time."

Catching hold of Starek’s ankle, he gives a smooth tug, sending the younger man sliding down towards the foot of the bed. Catching the knee that was bent, he folds it back towards the owner’s chest. This has the effect of opening Starek beautifully, exposing his straining _razhek_ and the small opening that lies beneath.

He licks his lips, crouches, and then dives in to savor this new experience.

Starek’s back arches in surprise. Of all the things he’d predicted, this was not among them.

" _Shok’uh nash-veh! Ha! Shok’uh nash-veh svi’nash-kro’el!_ " he begs, groaning. " _Aitlu tu, k’diwa. Aitlu kanok-vei na’tan-tor du ma._ "

He is panting now, clutching at the sheets in exactly the way he generally doesn’t. Starek feels himself coming apart at the seams, and can find no rational reason for it. This is no better than he’s had before — in fact, he’s definitely had better — but his head is spinning, and he’s begging like it’s something new. The rest of his control had best not become so flimsy, he thinks, tilting his head back, as a desperate sound breaks from him.

Starek’s _hul’a_ is now as wet as his _lok_. Still, Spock can’t help kissing longer, even pushing his tongue inside, as he’d felt his _tal-kam_ do earlier. The strain of being on the giving end of this act is surprising, but he will deny his lover nothing. He keeps it up, pointing his tongue as much as possible, stretching Starek wider with his hands.

After a suitable number of groans and tender imprecations, he gathers the courage to lean over Starek and slip a wet finger inside.

The sensations of heat and tightness, rush into Spock and straight through him. He bites his lip. His cock leaps. He needs to rest, to lean his forehead against something but there is nothing available. Instead, he settles for sitting on the bed, resting one arm against Starek’s bent knee and his head on top of that.

The support is enough to allow him to move his finger — but only slightly. How anyone is able to do more without rendering themselves unconscious is a mystery.

Starek’s vision flickers for a moment, as the tongue on his flesh is swapped for a finger, and then Spock is draped across his leg, looking dizzy and overcome. He is about to say something, but Spock’s finger slides a little farther in, and he just bites his lip, instead. The slow, short motions are nothing like enough, and after a long minute of this, he reaches up and tugs at Spock’s hair, to get his attention.

"I thought you were the one who was opposed to teasing," Starek growls.

"I -" he gasps, "my hands."

Defeated for the moment, he withdraws and collapses by Starek’s side.

Starek laughs, rolling over and flipping Spock onto his back.

"Let me show you how it’s done," he offers, with a cocky smirk, praying that at least some of his self-control is where he left it.

He slicks one hand on Spock’s slippery _ahn’vahr_ , pausing to swirl his tongue on the tip, before he ducks down, pushing Spock’s legs up, and burying his face in the exposed flesh. Starek’s tongue performs as admirably as it did back on the world, below, caressing and dipping into Spock’s warmth. He passes a few minutes, in this fashion, before slipping one slicked finger in, slowly, as he continues to lick.

It’s a rush, but his hands are used to this sort of abuse. He counts to five, before tilting his hand, changing the angle of the finger, and beginning to thrust, slowly, but as deeply as he can reach, stroking the top of the passage with his fingertip on every pass.

Spock thought he would be prepared for the sensation. He is wrong. There is discomfort, at first, but then a slow, burning pleasure, deeper than anything he has felt before. Once Starek gets into his deeper rhythm, Spock begins to come quite undone.

" _Ah! Kup-olau tu, Starek, ahhhh! Ni taurauuuuk._ "

He fists the pillows and makes small scooping motions with his hips, pushing into Starek’s proficent hand. His fingers brushes the gland they have in common and Spock jerks, whenever it does, eyes dark, mouth open, breath hitching in his throat.

" _Marom-tor tu . . ._ " he pants.

Starek cannot let himself think too much about what he is doing, or the evening will end swiftly and disappointingly. He’s been there. He’s done that. But, he knows what he’s seeing, and his hand slows, finger tracing slow, lazy circles on that one spot that drives Spock mad.

" _Var’uh nash-veh kuv nash sanoi._ " Starek sits up and offers a wicked half-smile, stroking one long finger down Spock’s length. " _Dungi kal-tor kwitau du nash svi’nash-veh heh kwit-tor abi’ovsoh, kuv kal-tor nash-veh than abomesauk, thurai._ "

With a supreme effort of will, Spock meets Starek’s wicked gaze and matches it.

" _Kuv du ki’kup’es. Uf aitlu du than ish-veh?_ "

Starek leans in, close, nipping at Spock’s collarbone, before he rolls them both over, pulling Spock onto him. With a bit of quick and slightly awkward rearranging, he gets his legs spread, with Spock between them.

" _Nar-tor vet t’du kal’i-kahk_." Starek pulls one of his knees up, to touch his shoulder. " _Nam-tor mnu t’du, svi’nash-kro’el._ "

He looks up, catching Spock’s eye, and switches to Standard, because he speaks it a little better than Vulcan, and this part’s actually important. "Don’t worry about hurting me, I’ve had worse. I can promise you that. Hell, I can show you, later, if you really want to know what the worst of the worst looks like."

Spock takes hold of himself and gives Starek a few easy rubs to slick him up. Then he positions himself, takes a breath, and pushes slowly in, watching and feeling his lover open for him at once.

At a few inches he stops and hangs his head, too deep in the sensations to accept any more visual stimulus. The feeling of being inside Starek while seeing the Romulan so wantonly spread for him is too much for a moment.

But he’s quick to recover. Spock experiments with movement, feeling Starek’s hot channel easing open, allowing him ever more access until he’s fully sheathed and has nothing left to give. Oh, except sensation, yes, he can do that. He can buck and thrust and even swing his hips with his hot gaze riveted to Starek’s face.

Starek, in turn, is quick to cross his ankles behind Spock’s hips, to stretch his arms up, cross his wrists near the headboard, and grab onto the decorative carvings, there. He tilts his hips, to let Spock go deeper, and then rolls them in ways he never would have learned without Orions on board. Something to be said for bellydancing, he notes, and a thin smile spreads across his lips.

Spock is hammering into him, and it’s not great, but it’s sure as hell nothing like bad. Some people’s instincts are better than others, he reflects, tightening down for one motion, almost pulling. He licks his lips, teeth settling into the edge of the lower one, as he gazes hazily and sultrily up at Spock.

" _Nash-veh t’du ,_ Spock. All yours," Starek breathes. "Yours to fuck as you please."

" _Rislauk ru’lut_ ," Spock growls, as he thrusts with vigor. " _Weh-tar’uh ni lau-shahtau nash-veh_."

The room spins gently around Starek’s head, at that suggestion, and he grins dizzily.

" _Tizh-tor du kitork-ru’lut t’nash-veh ha?"_ Starek pauses, letting a long moment hang silently between them. " _Az’ir’kh’ar’uh k’nash-veh! Az’ir’kh’ar’uh k’nash-veh k’weht-nekwitaya! Weht-sahris! Weht-nekwitya!_ "

He follows this with a long drawn out groan, arching his back and angling his hips down, making for a tighter and shorter thrust, until he settles. Licking his lips, he gazes teasingly up at Spock. " _Tizh-tor du ves t’nash-vel ha?_ "

" _Ah_ ," Spock responds, " _Ah. Maut be . . .ni be._ "

And he does pick up the pace, his thrusts irregular and shallow, no control left at all; the teasing has erased it.

" _Tra!_ "

And he jerks with the almost-painful force of it, finally collapsing against Starek, head held tightly against the other’s chest.

Starek purrs, softly, nuzzling the top of Spock’s head. " _Ma etek mihrsh wi ha?_ " he teases.

His hands ghost along the lines of Spock’s body, gentle fingertip-kisses everywhere he can reach to put them, and his hips still rock slowly and easily, rubbing his _ahn’vahr_ against Spock’s belly, tightening and releasing around the Vulcan’s _elat_ , still buried within him.

" _Shom’uh ein lirt’k. Yi dungi than nash-veh ish-torek sanosh-bosh fi’du._ " Starek squeezes the tip of one of Spock’s ears. " _Sihau ki’kup’es aisha khrasau du va’ashiv._ "


	10. Chapter 10

 Spock looks up. His hair is delightfully rumpled. " _Va’ashiv?_ " There is doubt, but also curiosity in his eyes. " _Nam-tor du aushfa. Ri’nam-tor pon farr t’nash-veh, fai-tor du._ "

" _Ha, va’ashiv._ At least once. _Sihau nash-veh ki’kup’es hafau lerash na’hiyet wak kup-az’ir’kh’ar k’du abi’ri’vokaya ki’tu t’ahm t’du._ " Starek stretches, deliciously, pointing his toes at the ceiling, on one side. " _Ri’bolau nash-veh pon farr kup-tor dah ashivaya. Kuv kwitau nash-veh svi’du – dungi saul-tor du na’weht – nah-tor nash-veh._ "

He looks at Spock with a cocky grin, eyes alight with temptation. "Of course, it’s all up to you, _k’diwa_. My pleasure comes at the end, after you have had all you desire of me."

The Vulcan disengages from Starek and flops down to lie on his back among the covers, putting his hands behind his head.

" _Nem’uh nash-veh._ "

Starek groans, gripping the sheets, at the sudden feeling of emptiness. Shaking his head, he gets to his knees, and situates himself between Spock’s legs. He leans forward and steals a kiss.

" _Dungi nam-tor ri’hagik._ I’ll try to be gentle with you," he says, slicking his fingers with what’s left inside him. "This is the last easy part."

He slips one finger into Spock, stroking, as he did before. It’s even more difficult, this time — Starek’s entire body is crackling with electric lust, and the sensation on his finger is intense, hot and still tight.

"Relax," he says, sitting back and gently stroking Spock’s inner thigh with his other hand. Both hands are engaged with heat and skin, and Starek is certain that if he hadn’t callused the tips of his fingers, working on the ship in the neutral zone, he’d be running a whole lot hotter than he is. As Spock’s hips rock against his hand, he slips in another finger, and now he’s kissing the Vulcan’s prostate with the tips of his fingers, and the thought is enough to make the room go blotchy. His jaw tightens, with a creak of teeth on teeth, as he tries to ensure that he’s not going to do any damage by accident. Starek knows that just because he has little concern for his own comfort, in these situations, doesn’t mean that anyone else can take hard and rough, with the grace that he does.

Spock wills his body into a calm, submissive state. He has had years of practise wih biofeedback and meditation, but the Romulan has stirred his blood and finding any sort of control is difficult. Still, he finds that as he watches Starek — the smooth, clean lines of his arms and those graceful hands, working at him, he finds it is possible to be both aroused and relaxed at once.

He finds, suddenly, that not only are his palms twitching, but he wants something in his mouth. A thumb, therefore, is the perfect solution. He slides his tongue-tip along the outside of one, carefully, savoring the feeling. Starek’s fingers at his core cause him to hiss with pleasure and nip at the end of the digit.

Starek draws his fingers out slowly, and turns his head to press a kiss to Spock’s knee. He takes the hand Spock’s not sucking at, in his clean hand.

"This is going to hurt, but only for a few seconds. Stay calm, I promise it gets good."

Starek wonders, for a split second, what the hell he’s doing, taking some Vulcan’s virginity. Aren’t there customs? Isn’t Spock old enough to have been through pon farr at least once? This is insane, and he knows it, and he is going to do it, anyway, because he was never a man to turn down an unexpected gift.

Taking himself in the hand he’d been using, he leans in, gently pressing the tip of his _lok_ into the beautiful Vulcan spread beneath him. He stops as soon as he manages to push the _elat-fi’shaht_ past the ring of muscle.

" _Nam-tor ovsoh rasahkos._ " Starek stays very still, except where he rubs the tips of Spock’s fingers between his own. " _Var’uh nash-veh dvun-tor lu._ "

After two or three gasps, Spock finds that the pain is bearable. He bends the two fingers Starek has, and nods for him to continue.

Starek watches Spock’s face, carefully, as he sheathes himself, completely. The grip on his fingers is a little tighter, but he hasn’t seen the pained look of horror that usually precedes the, ‘fuck no, ow, get off me’. So far, so good.

He rocks his hips, grinding, more than thrusting, to start, and words spill from his lips before he can think about them at all. In fact, he’s so enraptured by the sight of Spock spread below him, that he barely perceives the fact that he’s speaking at all.

" _Nam-tor du maut vaksurik – kanok buhfik zehl heh ov’din t’ak’shem sai-fam t’du. Vesht nah-tor kupi-nam-tor kunli goh glantau tu – hi fai-tor i ri’nam-tor nash-veh vita zhu-tor spes t’du. Variben’uh na’nash-veh. Var’uh na’nash-veh olaya heh zherka t’tu. Var’uh na’nash-veh aitlun t’du._ "

The rumble starts deep in Spock’s chest, almost at the level of his vitals before passing his lips in the form of a purr. It is in response to Starek’s motions and to the burning, slowly ebbing, becoming a succulent heat that drags at him, pulling away the veil of propriety so that deeper feelings surface.

" _Maut-slor, k’tu svi’udish. Vesht ri’nah-tor kupi-nam-tor u’nash. Vesht tar-tor au riyeht-ish. Po riyeht-ish? Ha, maut. Mag-tor na’du._ "

A verdant flush begins to spread across Starek’s chest, lighting up a few pale scars, as he listens to the untempered words. He studies Spock, carefully, reverently, trying to memorise the whole of that lean body, every shade and line and curve.

" _I’nam-tor kanok-vei yauluhk la k’nash-veh. Nam-tor du kanok-vei t’nash-veh. Nam-tor du panu t’nashveh – oekon heh panu t’nash-veh._ "

Starek hooks an arm under one of Spock’s legs and leans down, kissing his neck, his ear, his cheek. The change in position allows Starek to thrust, and he does, hard and slow.

" _Shitau zhit t’du yon svi’khaf-spol t’nash-veh. Tan-tor du lof na’nash-veh. Dungi dvun-tor khio’ri na’sanosh t’du._ "

Spock gives into the need to hold Starek, to press him close. Even chest to chest and sheathed in him seems too far away. He smooths finger kisses down his shoulders and back, waist and sides, eyes closed, exploring just with his hands.

" _Ri’nam-tor oekon,_ " Spock reminds him gently. He tries thrusting back, finds it possible, and cries out his little victory against Starek’s skin. The slippery pool between their bellies is providing a sweet area in which to glide against him. " _Hi abertau nash-veh mesakh oigen._ "

" _Vesht riyeht. Nam-tor du oekon t’nash-veh, k’diwa ,_" Starek pants, twisting his body toward Spock’s wandering fingers, winding like a serpent to keep them on his skin as long as possible.

He moves, to look down into Spock’s eyes, studying them, before he speaks again. " _Estuhl’uh limuk t’nash-veh k’ozh-sfek t’du. Shok’uh kashek t’nash-veh va’ashiv. Bolau glan-tor vu k’bezhun t’nash-veh – tu’ash heh kastorilauk ne’nash-veh._ "

Starek stills for a moment. Spock licks his lips and stares, enthralled, at his _ka-veh_. He brings his hand up to trail it over the planes of Starek’s cheeks and brows before finally settling onto the meld points as gently as a falling leaf.

Starek lets himself fall in. The feedback loop is immediate and intense; he stares down into Spock’s eyes and up into his own. He is touching and touched, filling and filled, beautiful, astonished, and enraptured. It is the most real he has ever been.

He sees himself, bare and well-scarred, flushed with heat and passion, gazing down with a look he’s never seen on his own face, because it’s never in the mirror like this. For a moment, Starek wants to cover himself, in shame, to close his eyes, to hide the scars, but there’s no judgement from Spock, just pleasure, joy, and faint curiosity.

With some effort, Starek focuses his eyes again, drawing in the form and essence of Spock’s body. First, the whole image, then the components, the angles, the colours and shadows, everything he will need to put this on canvas. His fascination runs deep, and he thinks of how good the painting will look, hung beside his bed, in this room that is his alone — a memory of the brightest moment he expects to survive.

His hips move again, thrusting slow and deep, and he cannot remember any greater pleasure than this — giving and receiving the same pleasure, simultaneously. This is how it should be, he knows, and there is a flare of fear and disappointment at the knowledge that this is something that could be lost — that this may be the only time he will know it.

But, he falls in, then, and the pleasure is everything. All vision is beauty. Every sound, a welcome gasp or groan. And everywhere flesh meets flesh, the liquid heat of passion spreads through him like a climbing vine.

And Spock, with the dual nature of his new perception, barely feels as though he can contain all the pleasure, especially now that Starek has begun to move again — deftly and with slow purpose. Spock sees that his face and all the angles of his body are softer, now, as he’s rocked by Starek’s easy rhythm, than at any other time. He knows it is because he is less guarded than he has been with anyone, and perhaps even less than in moments of deepest solitude.

This deeper meld is exhilarating. There is both a nobility and compassion in Starek’s nature that was not apparent to the casual nor even to the interested eye. It is a delicious contrast to the heat and lust that are also a part of him. But rather than profane each other, the combination is stunning — like a new type of star that he has never seen before.

Starek can feel the crackle of lust in his fingertips, and the swirl of heat between his hips — at least, he thinks those are his hips; they might be Spock’s. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t matter, any more. He’s never wanted to be this close to anyone in his life, and he’s gotten naked with an awful lot of people, over the years. The tips of his ears tinge an even darker green, as he shoves that thought aside, certain that the breadth of his exploits are not a suitable thing to reference, at this time. The important thing is that he wants this — the syrupy duality that opens new layers of truth and pleasure to his perception.

Somewhere in all of it, Starek can feel his hips moving faster, in a pattern he’s always loved to use to tease — four quick, shallow thrusts and one more, deep and forceful.

"Yes! Please! Fuck me!" The words are Starek’s — he can feel them fall out of his mouth, in thick, Romulan-accented Standard, but the sensations that sparked them are Spock’s. Starek can no longer quite tell if he’s fucking or fucked, and he’s sure it doesn’t matter, because he can still feel his body and Spock’s moving in rhythms that come from the sense of timing only perfect unity can give.

Everything is moving faster now, and part of Spock feels as if he’s just hanging onto something hot and powerful, something that’s running along a cliff. Just a glance over the edge and there is vertigo. But the height is thrilling. With one of them sheathed in a tight passage, and the other one seized in a fist, they are at a fever pitch. And inside, the need to take, to utterly possess utterly, pours through both of them. The source is immaterial. As soon as it is conceived there is only the shared, jealous fire. _I claim this! Mine!_

The feeling builds until he bites and feels the teeth sink into his shoulder. Until he strokes and jerks in his hand. Until every entreaty in every language either of them know are exploding around them like fireworks.

The world is white. Starek isn’t certain about the sounds — they might be his; they might be Spock’s — it doesn’t matter. He can feel the pulse in his groin and in his fingertips — a thick hot spill inside him, on his hand, rushing from him. Too many parts for one person, and not enough for all the sensation.

He thinks he might’ve blacked out for a few seconds.

" _K’diwa…_ " A single drop of water falls from the bridge of his nose, splashing against Spock’s cheek. Starek’s hands are trembling. " _Haf’uh k’nash-veh._ "

Spock brings Starek completely down onto him, fitting his chin against Starek’s head and holds him, shielding him from all sides, from all things.

" _Kwon-sum_ ," he whispers with a voice that is oddly thick and tight.

Starek reaches out, dragging an edge of the rumpled blanket over them, to hold out what he intellectually knows to be an imaginary chill. It’s _never_ cold in his room.

" _Ri’tvai tevan-tor svi’ashaya k’tu – hi nah-tor ki’than ish-veh._ " He laughs, mostly at himself. "I apologise. It isn’t something I do, generally –" his fingers clench, one hand on the blanket, and the other on Spock’s shoulder. "– _Pekh ,_ it isn’t something I’ve done, you know, ever. But, ah, I’ve never had anyone so far inside my head, before, either. _Kuv tar-tor ri’tar-tor – riyeht-tar-tor nash-veh._ It’s still weird. I’m … in love."

He laughs, again, then untangles his arm from Spock’s leg and snuggles closer, if such a thing is possible, putting as much skin against skin as he can.

"Your mind is an exquisite place. I wish to be there again." Spock pauses, ruminates. "To stay there."

He too cuddles closer and whispers into Starek’s ear. "Never parted."

They lie together for long moments, savoring their feelings of completeness. Although reality is beginning to nibble at the edges of Spock’s mind, he pushes those thoughts away. He wants to embrace Starek for a little longer, to lie here in this cocoon, in this sanctuary of their love.

" _Ri’stariben’uh duh’es. Dungi shau khaf-spol t’nash-veh fayei nam-tor bolayatik. Fai-tor nash-veh ish-veh._ " Starek shrugs against Spock’s chest. "But, if there comes a time that you wish to come back to me, know that I will never turn you away. _Worla_."

Turning his head, Starek presses a kiss to Spock’s neck, before he props himself on one elbow, to gaze down in fascinated amusement.

"How long are you on leave? I’m sure I can keep you entertained for another day or two…" He lazily traces a finger along Spock’s lip. "Also, I know that neither of us are going to want to be in shouting distance of this planet at daybreak. I foresee some bad things coming our way — really and truly, _our_ way — not just for you — and I’d like to be clear of this place before, as the Terrans say, the shit hits the fan, and I think you should do the same. We’re clear to take you wherever you need to go for whatever you’ve got to do, next."

He kisses Spock’s forehead, with his lips. "But, for now, I think the most important questions are whether you’re going to stay the night in my bed, and how we’re going to get the rest of your luggage off the planet."


	11. Chapter 11

Cash is driving on the return trip. Skye, full of jam and starches, has predictably fallen asleep against Amber and complains in her small, sweet way whenever her surrogate teddy bear tries to disengage.

"We’re back," Amber pokes Skye as the car glides into the garage. "Wake up."

She blinks and sits up, with a yawn and a stretch. "Are we okay?"

"Cash and I will see. Go have a look for Khart-lan. You know all his usual hiding spots."

Skye takes off her shoes at the garage door and trails away, calling softly.

"I don’t know why you baby her like that," Cash grumps at her.

Amber rounds on him. "Yeah, I know. How bizarre to see some honest compassion in this house."

"I only meant–"

"I know what you meant, you misogynist prick." She jerks her head. "C’mon. She’ll be in the control room."

T’Nis is, in fact, exactly where Amber predicted, long hair swept into a chignon and wearing daytime clothes in a bruise-colored pallette. Her fingers connect rapidly with the interfaces, so that the sequence of action onscreen is almost too fast for the humans to follow.

"We’re back," Amber says, matter-of-factly. "Can we get you anything?"

T’Nis does not look away from the screen. "Yes. Espresso, scalding. And Cash, finish the rough edit. I’m going to look for appropriate comm nodes."

Amber turns and heads back towards the kitchen. T’Nis’s little lapse will not be mentioned, of course. The Vulcan will arrange for some workers to come in in tomorrow or the next day and everything will be back to its usual state of deeply flawed perfection.

She measures coffee into the machine and sighs. Maybe after tonight, when that precious footage is released, they’ll all finally be able to relax.

* * *

Spock exhales as the reality crashes down, pinning him like a small creature on a dissecting tray.

"I must leave immediately. My effects are at the transportation hub in Lancaster. And my next stop after that must be at," and he swallows, "my father’s residence in San Francisco."

"Immediately. You mean, like, right now." Starek shuts down, visibly, extracting himself from the tangle of limbs and bedclothes. Blank-faced, he steps off the bed, stiffly, to sort through the clothing on the floor.

"And walking into the worst of your own problems, too, I see. But, what must be must be." He tosses Spock’s clothes onto the foot of the bed. "If you want a shower, I’m certain you can find it."

Starek sinks, gracefully, to the floor, legs crossing on the way down, landing with his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands. "I have to make this stop, now. I’ll be just a minute or two. Nothing goes according to plan. Everything falls apart, and the falling apart falls apart. I’m not sure if this is better or worse than the last time Merendith had to put my guts back in, but I’ll tell you it feels about the same."

Still dazed, Spock reaches for him. But his fingers close on nothing. Starek is on the floor, head in hands, before Spock even realizes what has happened.

Starek sits straighter, closing his eyes, running the backs of his hands down his arms, breathing deeply. Spock lies perfectly still during his lover’s brief period of — meditation? No, it is not. For it has not left him relaxed when it ends. When Starek stands, after two minutes, he seems stiff, brittle, and cold.

"If you wish, we will stay in orbit, and you can take one of our beacons, just in case you need us to save you from the horrorshow I suspect is coming." Starek opens a drawer, and pulls out a small, black box. "Take it anyway. If you want me for anything, hit that button. Maybe I’ll be close enough to hear you."

" _Yeht-veh_ , please." Spock is standing now, palm out. "I desire nothing more than to stay here with you. And immediately is not . . . we have some little time left to us."

" _K’diwa_ , you’re going to break my heart. That’s the way this ends. And maybe, one day, when the world can look the other way, you’ll come back to me, but what am I to do in that time?" Starek feels his control coming apart, and it’s the feel of strained muscle tearing, that he knows so well. It’s illusory, but he feels it in his hands, his arms, his chest. "I can put it all away. I can say it doesn’t matter, until I believe it.

"And more than that? I deserve it. I set you up. You know that." A thin smirk of self-disgust appears, and Starek rubs the back of his neck with one hand, and reaches for Spock with the other. "You know me better than my best friend, and I think that’s really the problem, here. It’s the only time anyone’s been inside me, like that, and now I’m like a little girl with a crush."

He traces a swirl on Spock’s upturned palm. "I joked about ruining you, but it may be the other way around."

After a long pause, Starek looks Spock in the eye. "I’m not like this, Spock. I’m a heartless one-night stand. I enjoy being that way. But, you… You need to know that I’m serious. You need to know that if you call for me, any time, anywhere, if I can hear you, I’ll move stars to stand by you."

Spock swallows, thickly, knowing that there is nothing to say. He curses himself for having been so thoughtless as to believe they could have even this, just one sliver of a single night, without it leading to ruin.

"I shall need to cleanse myself," he says. How much greater an affront it would be to appear in his father’s presence smelling of Romulan musk?

He pulls Starek close to him, kissing the tip of one ear. " _Dungau-ma etek sov-masu a’rs’a t’etek?_ "

Starek shivers, almost melting against Spock. " _Dungi-palikau mashulayek. Kuv kup-lam-tor na’ish-pul-vath. Aisha pada-tor du patam t’nash-veh._ "

He pulls away with a humorously disgruntled look, half smiles, and heads to the bathroom. Starek hasn’t really had a chance to enjoy the new bath, since the plumbing’s been acting up, since Riena and D’nila installed it, but if D’nila said it was ready to go, he couldn’t think of a better time to test it. Stepping down into the bathtub that occupied most of the room, he turned one of the old-fashioned knobs on the wall and flinched, waiting for something to go wrong. Instead, hot water rains down from five points along the ceiling, and he quickly turns the other knob, to set the temperature to something other than boiling.

Starek holds out a hand to Spock, finally smiling recklessly, again. "Rain dance, you say? I’m afraid I don’t know how to dance like a Vulcan, but I’m told the dances I learned from the Orions are close enough to pass. From what little I’ve seen, it’s a fair bet."

The look in Spock’s eyes is tender, but sorrowful as well. "I didn’t mean it literally, _yeht-veh_."

Starek leads them into the falling rain. Spock’s skin tingles with it, becoming almost as fully alive as when they were sharing the meld. He embraces Starek once more and, lifting his face reverently, kisses him, taking what little comfort he may from these last few moments of having Starek by his side.

At last, spying a jar of soap, he scoops some out and begins to wash his lover. Spock traces slick fingers across the scarred chest, kissing the imperfections to fix them more solidly in his mind. Although his memory is edetic, he fears the loss of even the smallest fragment of this time.

Spock’s gentle washing proceeds to Starek’s up shoulders, massaging them, and from there to his arms, and hands. He lingers there, fitting his slippery fingers between those of his counterpart. With a sigh, he leans into Starek as the water sheets down their backs and falls gently all around them.

Despite the shower, they will never be clean. Neither one of them.

Starek is just as dexterous as he looks, tossing the soap to himself with his foot, so he doesn’t have to move away from Spock to reach it. It’s a tricky move, and he smiles against Spock’s neck as the jar crashes into his hand. He almost drops it, but then catches it between one finger and his thumb. Score one for the home team. He hasn’t lost it, after all.

Words aren’t necessary, as Starek’s tempting smile says everything he could say and not start a fight or a guilt trip. His soapy hands linger on almost every bit of Spock’s skin he washes, and a few bits he probably shouldn’t wash, unless he’s looking for trouble, but he wouldn’t be a starship pirate, if he wasn’t always looking for trouble. In the end, he winds up on his knees, with Spock’s foot in his hands, gazing up, through the falling water, at the second person in his life with enough weight to shift his balance — and the only one he fell so hard for.

Starek returns to his feet, resisting all the amusing things he could be doing while kneeling, and takes Spock’s hand in his own, laying it on a rather noticeable scar, just below his ribs. "When I say it’s like being gutted, I might not be joking. Barfight. Draylax. And what they say about Draylaxian women is true. And after she put my intestines back in, Merendith almost killed me for being a reckless cocksman."

He laughs, almost easily, and pulls Spock against him for a heated kiss. Clean? Whole? None of that matters. It isn’t like he’s ever been either.

Starek’s teasing humor gives Spock the ability to to finish washing him. He must will his hands not to tremble near the areas so heedlessly enjoyed, but he manages.

Afterwards, there are bodies to dry and clothes to sort and toss into the sonic washtub, concealed in its usual place. All this keeps Spock occupied for a few more minutes. But at last his thoughts can’t be held back.

"Where will you go, then?"

Starek snorts, pulling fresh clothes from his closet. "As the Terrans say, fucked if I know. I go where there’s profit to be had. Got a list of ship parts two pages long, that we still need to refit, before I can start having faith in our survival over warp three. Somewhere in the Alpha Quadrant, there are people who have the parts I need, and who need someone to do moderately questionable things for them. I just have to _find_ those people."

The knee breeches fit him like a second skin, and Starek shows just an inch or two of actual skin between them and the tops of his boots. He sorts through shirts and jackets as he talks.

"I can give you the routing code to hail us, but you need to swear to me that it stays in your head. You do not give that sequence to anyone — I don’t care what they do to your brains. If I give this to you, you need to guard it like I guard the Delta VII incident. The last thing I need is some Federation patrol ship up my nacelles, because you sprung a leak."

He skips the shirt, pulling out a violet frock coat, with gold trim. It sets off the pale greenish-grey of his skin, rather nicely, but there will be none who take him for a Vulcan in it. He looks at Spock, in the mirror, as he hangs the strap of his goggles around his neck.

"Can you promise me that?"

Starek ties a long, violet, satin scarf around his head, and pulls the goggles up, to sit just above his forehead. He turns around to look at Spock, directly, leaning against the vanity, waiting for an answer.

Fully dressed once more, Spock turns to fix Starek with a penetrating, almost affronted look. But then it softens.

" _Nam’uh hagik, yeht-veh. Dungi-klashhausu tsatiklar t’etek svi’khaf-spol t’nash-veh._ " He comes forward, sweeping in for another embrace, murmuring over Starek’s shoulder. " _Kwon-sum_."

Starek smiles, sadly, wrapping his arms tightly around Spock, whispering the routing code into his ear. He stays there a long moment, before realizing there probably isn’t any more time.

"I dressed so you could see me once as I am meant to be seen. Foolish? Yes. Egotistical? Definitely. But let your memory of what I look like, in clothes, be this, and not that damnable robe. I don’t look _good_ in that thing, regardless of how often I wear it for the sake of propriety." The reckless grin is back, and Starek spins and bows, graceful and cocky, as ever he is. "Let me walk you to the transporter, so the Orions don’t maul you, on your way out."

A sudden smirk hits him. "Hey, do you want to borrow one of the girls? Can’t be a _sa-ka-ashausu_ , if you’re showing up on your father’s doorstep with an Orion girl on your arm, right?" Starek laughs, broadly. The entire situation is ridiculous. It’s just his luck to end up in some twisted parody of his own intentions, and offering to loan one of his engineers to the man of his dreams, to counteract the betrayal he himself helped engineer.

Every moment finds Spock grateful for the humor that is allowing him to put one foot in front of the other. He dreads to think what will happen once it is gone.

They walk the short distance to the turbolift, side by side, for this short time at least. In the small space they grasp each other’s hands, leaning on each other for support. Only when it is time for Spock to step up on the transporter pad do they break the contact.

"Until we meet again, _k’diwa_." ‘Goodbye’ is too painful — too permanent. Starek’s a linguist and a poet, though, and it’s easy enough to find words that say what he means, rather than what’s expected.

" _Kwon-sum ,_" he says, tapping his forehead with the side of a finger. "I would move worlds for you. I would pull the stars from the sky. Whatever you desire, at any time."

He bites his lip, and his eyes glisten, as he tries for one more smile. When this is over, he’s going to lock himself in his quarters with a double-chocolate hazelnut mocha, and replicate things to throw at the wall. Darts. Darts would be eminently sensible at a time like this, but it’ll probably be Andorian crystal, because he likes the sound of it, when it breaks — the comforting sound of the glorious burst of impact.

Spock raises his hand in the _ta’al_.

" _Ashayam. Taluhk nash-veh k’dular. Dif-tor –_ "

But the words stick in his throat. And he disappears in swirling energy before it can become unstuck.


End file.
